My Lost Youth
by Edward A. Masen
Summary: The beginnings of a most unusual family, as told by Edward Masen.
1. Prologue

My Lost Youth

by

Edward A. Masen

*

*

Prologue

_From childhood's hour I have not been  
As others were; I have not seen  
As others saw; I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring.  
From the same source I have not taken  
My sorrow; I could not awaken  
My heart to joy at the same tone;  
And all I loved, I loved alone.  
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn  
Of a most stormy life- was drawn  
From every depth of good and ill  
The mystery which binds me still:  
From the sun that round me rolled  
In its autumn tint of gold,  
From the lightning in the sky  
As it passed me flying by,  
From the thunder and the storm,  
And the cloud that took the form  
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)  
Of a demon in my view._

_- Alone_ by Edgar Allen Poe

_Isle Esme, August, 1932_

**The sea** floor rose beneath me; living towers of intricate reef fell away from view, and as I glided along, I let one hand drag through rippled sand shimmering in sunlight. It looked like our long swim, which had started with a plunge into the waters off Rio, might be coming to an end.

All I knew about our watery expedition was that Carlisle wanted to show me something he was giving to Esme for their anniversary. Whatever it was, he was successfully shrouding specific thoughts about it; I only heard and saw things that dealt with our swim, and occasionally some underwater memory from his past. Of course, I wasn't trying to break through and read the subtext of his thoughts. All he had to do was create the slightest disguise to his mind, and I ceased scrutinizing as best I could. Of all the creatures who knew about my little talent, Carlisle attempted to hide his thoughts the least, and the past fourteen years had taught me that when he _did_ hide them, it was for a good reason. Today's reason, obviously, was to preserve the element of surprise, and I had no problem going along with that. I hadn't had any pleasant surprises in a long time.

The streaming wake behind his torpedo form disappeared as his feet touched the sand and he took off onto land, kicking up a billowing cloud of white in the water. I burst through it right behind him.

Emerging into the languid, sweet tropical air, the scent of a new place, was exhilaration itself- such a relief from being underwater. The only thing that bothered me about swimming was being unable to smell anything. It didn't hurt to take water into my lungs, but it's disgusting, to say nothing of the foul process of choking it out later. I'd tried it once, and that was enough for me.

The sand was silk under our feet as we raced along an unfamiliar island shore. He was apparently sure we were alone there, unconcerned about our bodies openly refracting the sunlight, and I didn't smell any humans. Best of all, this place was blessedly free of their muddled thoughts.

Carlisle flashed a grin over his shoulder and cut to the left, heading for a patch of jungle in the center of the island. I caught up and overtook him a half second later, slicing through the vegetation, chuckling as five rainbow-feathered birds flew away in fright after I'd already dashed under their roosts. The laughter gave me pause... how long had it been since I'd laughed out of delight? Before my memory could unspool far enough back to find out, I deliberately abandoned the entire line of thought. I didn't want to revisit everything that had happened since the last time I'd laughed like that. It was enough to just enjoy it for now, to enjoy the scents and carefree motion as we ran.

I was always faster than Carlisle, something I never grew out of from my newborn days. Because of that, everyone always assumed I was stronger than he was as well. Only the two of us knew better. He could thrash me anytime he felt like it.

Reminding myself that he was the one showing the way to this mystery gift, I let him take the lead again just in time for the jungle's end, revealing a deep cove on the other side of the island. The place was tiny. We'd crossed the entire thing in a few seconds.

Carlisle abruptly slowed to a human walk, approaching the waves rolling onto the beach. He turned to me and took a few giddy steps back, holding out his arms in presentation.

"Well? Think she'll like it?"

"A vacation here?" I shrugged. "Sure."

"No. The island itself."

"An island," I said flatly. "You're giving her an island?"

"Welcome to Isle Esme. I signed the papers last month."

"She'd better like it." I chuckled.

Their tenth anniversary was just a few weeks away, and she'd already told me what she had in mind for the event, too. It was the first time I'd heard of _taking away_ a possession as a gesture of gift-giving, and at first I thought she'd lost her mind. But after considering it a little further, I realized she was really onto something. It would be interesting to see his reaction.

Carlisle wandered to the edge of the surf and paused there with the stillness unique to our kind. His hair and swim trunks, like mine, were already dry from the run, ruffled by the wind... the only things that prevented him from looking like a frozen sculpture. His thoughts were a soft jumble of longings and anticipation.

"I want to surprise her, to bring her here that night," he murmured as I joined him.

His smile took on a dreamy aspect; he was imagining her reaction, what their anniversary night would bring. I had to tune out of his thoughts in a hurry, to focus on listening to the corporeal sea in the absence of other minds. Carlisle really did try to be discreet around me, but it got away from him every once in a while.

A few moments later he glanced at me apologetically.

"Sorry about that."

I just smirked and resumed enjoying the place, opening my mind back up to him.

"She'll love it. It really is beautiful here, Carlisle."

_Peaceful,_ he thought, and turned his admiration to the sunset about to occur, the wind picking up speed, the roar of the waves.

"Why am I here?" I asked eventually. "You could have just told me."

_I wanted you to see this place, to know where it was, if you ever need it..._

"I know you don't think you deserve tranquility." He used his voice, glancing my way. "But you do. I know how much you need it, and I know it's not easy for you to find a place where you won't be disturbed. But you wouldn't be here. Whenever you want to spend some real time by yourself, you can come here. I wanted you to know that."

I tried to ignore his intentions. "Don't you think that should be up to Esme?"

_We both know she won't mind at all, Edward._

Gratitude swelled for a moment before I had the chance to deflate it. "Alright," I mumbled. "Thank you."

We stood in silence for some time, and although he was thinking of rather mundane things like procuring a boat for future trips to the island, and what Esme might want to build here in the way of a beach house, I got the nagging impression he wasn't done with me. The next thing he asked confirmed it.

_How long has it been since you looked at yourself?_  
_  
_My jaw clenched. I didn't like where this was going. It was true, though- I hadn't looked in a mirror, sought myself in anyone's eyes or mind, gazed at the surface of water- not since I'd come home that night weeks ago, with eyes as red and violent as my deeds.

Neither he nor Esme asked me where I'd been for the last couple of years, and I didn't tell them. They let me be.

Until now. I was beginning to suspect that the entire trip to Brazil, which Carlisle had said was about researching the pharmacology of Amazonian tribes, was an excuse to get me away from home, as if that's what it would take to escape the shame haunting me. I could feel the corner he was getting ready to back me into, no doubt hoping I would confess all so he could give me absolution. I doubted he'd be so anxious to assuage my guilt if he knew what I did. The vicious, unspeakable things...

I couldn't bear to look into the eyes of the creature that had done all of it. But they were my own. I avoided my reflection like the plague, and he'd evidently noticed.

"How long?" he repeated.

"Carlisle-"  
_  
You truly ought to look._

I did. I relented with short sigh and drifted into his mind's eye, to see what he saw.

My hair was sandy and windblown, my features relaxed- much more peaceful than I felt. My skin shone with diamond-cut brilliance, and my eyes... the crimson was gone. They were a gentle shade of gold laced with burgundy.

"It doesn't make a difference," I told him. "I'll always be a murderer, Carlisle. The color of my eyes doesn't change anything."

_Edward, I know what you're capable of, and, more importantly, what you're _not_ capable of. That's why I know you'll become whole again._

I left his mind's eye and looked towards the sea, silencing a grumble. That I'd never felt whole to begin with, and didn't deserve to recover, would have been my reply. But I didn't want to get into it with him then, if ever. I intensely disliked how this day was ending up- already a thousand miles from where I thought it would. I was supposed to be in the rainforest, hunting exotic new prey, not falling into some trap Carlisle had set to get me to talk about my murderous sojourn. But he was about to find out that he'd already sabotaged his own efforts.

"I want to stay here tonight. Alone."

Carlisle furrowed his brow at me, taken aback by my twist on his offer, and then looked to the increasingly violent ocean. The wind, bringing the strong, clean scent of ozone in its wake, was pummeling the waves. Far beyond human vision, the rounded edge of a tropical storm dimmed the horizon.

"That storm will get here before midnight," he murmured.

"I know. I want it to."

_I see._ He gave a nearly inaudible sigh, reluctantly making up his mind not to try talking me out of it. _Should I expect you back in Rio tomorrow?_

"I'll come back to the hotel after dark."

"Very well." He looked at me unhappily._ Take care tonight._

With that he walked into the water, then sped up, gaining momentum as he crashed through churning waves taller than he was, and disappeared under the surface. I expected to feel satisfied in my solitude, having thwarted his intentions, and I did. But a while after his worried thoughts were too far away to hear, swallowed up by the roaring Atlantic, my satisfaction turned hollow.

I was still, but the whole island seemed to be moving. Palm trees and lush ferns in the jungle behind me were rustling, whispering, creaking as the wind gained strength, whisking up dry sand into drifts. The waves started curling in, getting higher, pounding harder into the shore. High above, flocks of alarmed birds flew away from the darkening horizon.

I opened my senses fully to the approaching typhoon, anticipating the battering it would try to subject me to. I waited alone.


	2. Forget the Light

Chapter 1 - Forget the Light

_Heart, we will forget him,_

_You and I, tonight_

_You must forget the warmth he gave_

_I will forget the light_

_When you have done, pray tell me,_

_Then I, my thoughts, will dim_

_Haste lest while you are lagging_

_I may remember him_

- Emily Dickinson

* * *

_Columbus, Ohio - August, 1911_

* * *

**Death is** the only inexorable demand made by God and nature, so it's always struck me as especially cruel that every living thing is fueled by an instinct to escape it. _Rage, rage against the dying of the light_, as Thomas said. And rage we do. Of course, there are exceptions - a whale beaches itself and can't be coaxed back into the sea, a human being decides they'd rather not continue to endure whatever misery they're experiencing, and questions that most fundamental instinct to survive. _To be or not to be_, as Hamlet said. Hamlet didn't commit suicide though... partly because he wasn't sure what awaited him after death. _To die, to sleep: perchance to dream- ay, there's the rub: for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause._

Some think they know what waits for them; heaven, hell, reincarnation, summerland, enlightenment, perhaps even a place among the sun, moon and stars. Very few can fathom that nothingness might follow death, because somehow that's the most disturbing prospect of all. To simply end. Whatever you experienced during your life is _all_ you'll ever experience. There will be no more _you_. Not here, not anywhere. It's that possibility, I think, that really terrifies a person who's cognizant of the fact that they're about to die. They may not even consciously think it. They feel it. There is a terrible finality about to descend upon them.

Death came to claim those of my kind, too, and we shuffled off our mortal coils, but never to drift into an uncharted realm of dreams... and neither did we cease to exist. Instead, we re-awakened the next moment in the very same world we left, only to find that we were no longer of it.

Such a little moment it is for us, between death and re-awakening, and yet that tiny sliver of time ploughs an enormous gulf between two existences. And even though most of us don't understand at first what we've become, we _feel_ the truth, like an instinct; we know that what has happened to us is unnatural, and that we are now a thing apart from our life before death, so much so that it's difficult to even remember it. For most of my kind, it's next to impossible to truly remember what it was like to have a beating heart, or to feel sleepy or have a dream, to feel hot or cold or sick or itchy or relaxed, to have family and friends and go about the world openly. Those memories slip away, lose meaning, and by the time we're cognizant of how much is missing, it's too late. We can never get those memories back, of what it was like.

To be human.

That vast, bleary distance from our mortal memories is, I think, one of the consequences our kind must endure for cheating death of its natural outcome... and there are many consequences. But we're here, and since we're here, we rage, and part of our refusal to go gently into that goodnight is to hang on to what we can remember about being alive.

I've been privy to almost all of Carlisle and Esme's human memories, not that there's much to see. Just about all that remains of Esme's childhood recollections are hazy, watercolor images of pastoral Ohio, of verdant farms and rural decorum. But there are certain pivotal events that she can recall with almost perfect clarity, and one of them occurred in late summer of 1911.

She was sixteen years old, and as was her habit on evenings that promised pretty sunsets, she climbed her favorite oak to settle in and watch night fall. Sometimes there was a book, sometimes there wasn't. But there was something different on that particular occasion. It was the first time she'd made her way through the familiar limbs wearing a very _un_familiar corset underneath her dress. She'd managed to talk her way out of it for more than a year, but there was no keeping her mother at bay anymore. Esme was laced into it every day now, since she was "of age." Right away she appreciated how much it aided her posture, but it certainly wasn't helpful that evening.

When she was just a few feet away from her favorite spot to nestle, she reached for a comfortable branch she'd grasped a hundred times before, but came up short - her torso just couldn't stretch and bend the way it was supposed to. The fall resulted in a broken leg.

But it wasn't the fall, the crack of bone, or the pain that she remembers so vividly. It was after the jolting ride to the hospital in Columbus some ten miles away, where a young doctor named Carlisle Cullen was on the night shift. Oh, the ride _was_ agonizing, though, agonizing enough to be remembered, albeit foggily. She lay curled in the backseat with her leg cushioned by a blanket her father had tucked underneath it, but it did nothing to dissipate the pain as his Model-T rattled along jagged dirt roads. There were times when the vibrations felt like they were shattering the damaged bone into even smaller pieces, and she gritted her teeth to keep from crying, grasping her leg as if to keep it together. The sunset was, indeed, beautiful, but it was impossible to enjoy it, even when her eyes weren't squeezed shut.

It was well after dark when they arrived, and there was very little activity outside the hospital as they pulled up. There were few passers-by, and a nearby dog barked as her father turned off the engine and hurried inside, returning in a moment with an orderly. Although silent tears streamed down her cheeks, Esme choked back the sobs burning her throat as she was extracted from the backseat and set onto a stretcher.

There was electric light in the parlor-like lobby, but the room she was carried into was gas lit- bright enough, but subdued and calming. Determined to stave off hysterics, she took deep breaths as they slid her over onto a bed while a nurse propped pillows under her back and head, asking Esme about how bad the pain was and murmuring sympathetic words. There was hurried discussion with her father about a Dr. Cullen being on his way, and questions about the absence of any kind of splint, which her father looked rather flustered about. But at least the pain was bearable, now that she wasn't at the mercy of every bump and groove in the road rattling straight into her broken bones.

Then he came in.

I don't know if her memory of that night becomes so clear at that point because his mere presence seemed to numb the pain, or because that's where Esme almost always started when she revisited the memory, preserving every cherished detail. Either way, the images become remarkably clear. Dr. Cullen was the most enchanting thing young Esme Anne Platt had ever seen, and her injured leg was no longer so distressing.

She lay quietly, mesmerized, watching the young doctor as her father explained to him how she'd broken her leg. Bernini himself could have sculpted Dr. Cullen, she thought, but still couldn't have achieved him. No master artist could. They might reproduce his Adonis-like form in marble and alabaster, paint the golden patina of his hair, but couldn't have breathed life into him. And what life it was! So vital, so brilliant...

_Oh, stop it,_ she chided herself, tearing her gaze from him. How could she be so easily swept away? He wasn't even talking yet, for Pete's sake. All he was doing was standing there, listening to her father, nodding occasionally. But good nature simply _radiated_ from him. It couldn't be just her imagination, could it?

She glanced anxiously at her pale yellow dress, grieving for its state- dirty and grass-stained, the delicate lace edging hanging in tatters, and then fretted about what kind of disaster her hair must be looking like. In the morning Esme had arranged her honey-colored "mop" (as her father called it) into an intricate braid pinned to her head like a crown, which was now, no doubt, loose and disheveled. Wild strands were clinging to her tear-streaked face. It was all she could do to refrain from fidgety efforts to improve her appearance. The doctor wasn't looking directly at her, but he'd certainly see the movement out of the corner of his eye, rendering her efforts obvious.

Instead, she folded her arms across her abdomen and stared at the ceiling, trying to collect herself. The reaction she was having to this man... it was probably just the shock, she reasoned. He was just a doctor, just a man like any other. _He's unusually handsome, that's all,_ she told herself.

He was going to have questions for her, he'd have to treat her leg. And she was determined to be alert and helpful, to answer his questions intelligently. She would_ not_ turn into a babbling idiot.

Then suddenly he was by her side, smiling like the sun, his voice drawing her gaze like a magnet.

"Well, Miss Platt, you certainly don't look like a tomboy."

Drat. Her father had evidently been complaining about her tendencies.

"Oh, I-I'm not- I mean, I don't-"

"Don't let that pretty face fool you, Doc," her father interrupted. "She's every bit a tomboy, and this isn't the first time she's fallen out of that tree, either. It's just the first time she broke something."

"I only fell one other time," Esme retorted, blushing furiously.

"Well, it must not happen _too_ often," the doctor said, still looking at her. "After all, from what I understand, this is your first time being treated in a hospital?" She nodded. "Well, Miss Platt, I'm Dr. Cullen, and I will do my very best to help you tonight, so don't be nervous, alright?"

"I'm not nervous," she murmured anxiously.

"Good. So you think your left leg broke when you fell? Can you tell me approximately where?"

"Yes. I even heard it when I landed-" She tried to sit up and reach her leg, but had to abandon the effort, wincing when the shift in position woke up the pain with a vengeance.

"Just relax, Miss, you only have to tell me."

"I think it's a few inches below my left knee."

"May I have your permission to feel for the fracture?"

Her heart thudded. How could any voice be so singularly beautiful? Every time he spoke, she _felt_ his voice as well as heard it, the timbre was so rich and melodic. And in those exceptional, sunset-gold eyes -so strange and yet so hypnotizing, that color- there was such depth and understanding. It took a long moment for her to snap out of the reverie and realize he'd just asked her a question.

_Feel for it?_

She nodded dumbly, not entirely sure if that's what she wanted at all. This man was going to be handling her somewhat intimately right there in front of her father. It was a petrifying situation, but it was understood that there were certain situations in which conventional propriety had to be set aside for practical reasons, and giving a doctor the access he needed was one of them. That didn't stop Esme from turning three shades of red, though, while internally chastising herself for having such an obvious reaction.

"Would you be more comfortable if your father waited outside?" Dr. Cullen asked quietly.

Esme glanced nervously at her father, wondering what the appropriate answer should be. To her relief, he didn't object to the doctor's suggestion, but he was smirking, and that was almost as bad. As if her situation wasn't humiliating enough, Arthur Platt not only appeared to be aware of the effect the doctor was having on his daughter, he was _amused_ by it.

"That's fine, doc," he said, not even bothering to disguise the humor in his tone, and then made his way out. "You just do what the he says, Esme Anne. Don't give him any trouble."

"I'm sure she won't," Dr. Cullen said, keeping his eyes locked onto hers.

With her father out of the room, she let out a small sigh, unaware that she'd been holding her breath.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"It's alright." He smiled comfortingly. "Just try to relax. But I need you to tell me when anything I do hurts or makes you uncomfortable. Will you do that?"

"Yes."

She clenched her eyes shut, squeamish about the exam itself, but mostly dreading the imminent event of her skirt getting pushed up. But it didn't happen that way. Leaving her dress just the way it was, he slid one hand under her left ankle without displacing her leg at all, and used the other to hold the tip of her foot, stretching it back ever so slightly. Pain sliced straight up the bone.

"Ow!" She gritted her teeth.

"Alright," he said quietly, immediately releasing the pressure. "Can you move your foot for me? Try a circular motion."

She rotated it, grimacing. "It really hurts, but I can do it," she reported, daring to open her eyes.

"Good movement," he said with a smile. "Now I'm going to take off your shoe, so keep relaxed, and don't try to hold your foot still."

Esme froze, staring again at the pale green ceiling, her breath caught in her throat again as he undid the laces of her ankle-high leather shoes. She braced herself for tugging and pain... but didn't feel a thing except cool air flooding through her stocking. The shoe was gone, and she sighed in relief.

"Now move it again, please."

She did.

"Better this time?"

"Yes. It doesn't hurt nearly as much."

"Very good... and when I move it like so?" He repeated the previous stretch, holding her toes gently. His fingers were cold, even through the stocking, but it was a nice sensation against the inflammation that the pain had caused. It was a nice sensation altogether.

"Much better."

He transferred his hands above her ankle then, squeezing lightly through the layers of fabric.

"Tell me when it hurts," he reminded her.

She just nodded, willing her heart to beat at a regular pace. She risked a glance down towards her feet to look at Dr. Cullen, and what Esme saw instantly chased away all self-consciousness.

He was in the _oddest_ position. His hands moved gradually, fingers undulating as if mapping out what was underneath them- that part wasn't so unexpected. It was the way he was hunched over, his ear just a mere inch above his hands; he practically had his head lying against her leg. If she didn't know any better, Esme would swear that he was actually _listening_ to her injury. Of course that was impossible, she knew, but there had to be _some_ doctorly reason for what he was doing.

She tilted her head in curiosity, matching the angle Dr. Cullen's was at. Their eyes met and locked, and his resulting smile made her grin back joyously.

"I suppose my tree-climbing days are over," she ventured.

"Not necessarily. Your leg will probably heal just fine. And you said yourself you've only fallen twice. Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"And your father gave me the impression that you climb that tree frequently..."

"All the time," she said with a nod, "since I was six or seven. I've probably climbed it hundreds of times."

"Two falls out of hundreds of climbs? Sounds like a good success rate to me."

"I suppose so," she smiled. "All the same, I really shouldn't be doing it anymore. It's not ladylike behavior."

"Why is that?"

Esme paused. Now that she thought about it, no one had ever told her _why_ it wasn't ladylike, aside from potential damage to clothing. But that same kind of damage could come from any number of activities which were considered befitting of a proper young woman. She'd seen far more clothing casualties happen in the kitchen than in the outdoors.

"I don't know," she concluded. "Just because, I suppose."

"Let me tell you a little secret, Miss Platt," Dr. Cullen's honey gaze seemed to deepen mesmerizingly. "When people won't give you any good reasons for limiting yourself to their way of doing things, it's usually because they don't have any." He looking away again as one hand drifted back down to her ankle, gently tugging to straighten it. "I love to climb trees myself."

Esme's face twitched in amusement. "You're pulling my leg."

His chuckle broke off the exam for just a moment, looking up at her again. "No, I honestly do."

"Sorry." She grinned shyly. "That was a pretty bad joke, wasn't it?"

He didn't answer right away. His smile remained, but it wasn't quite reaching his eyes anymore, which returned their gaze to his hands on her leg. "I'm glad you feel well enough to joke around right now."

Ordinarily it would be odd, a doctor climbing trees. But somehow it wasn't hard to imagine _him_ doing it. She couldn't help picturing Dr. Cullen scaling ancient oaks, dwelling in the treetops like some mythical forest king. It suited him.

Then his hands moved closer to the break, tweaking a distressed nerve.

"Ow." She grimaced.

"Sorry about that. I'm going to apply a little more pressure here..."

His hold tightened just the tiniest bit, and Esme tried to ignore the more pleasant sensations that accompanied the pain.

As his delicate grip moved further up and the pain got worse, she had to let him know in between increasingly shortened breaths. But by the time he reached her knee, well above the break, there was no pain-just the humiliatingly irrepressible thrill. And then he removed his hands.

"Are you feeling pain anywhere other than your leg?"

"I don't think so," she said, taking stock. "Just a little tender where I landed."

He looked at Esme promptingly, and she turned scarlet.

"Well, my leg hit the ground first, and then... my rear." _Please say you don't have to examine me there, please, please, please._

"Please don't be embarrassed, Miss Platt. I'd just like to feel along your backbone, make sure there's no damage to your spine. You won't even have to move. May I do that?"

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze as he shifted. His hands threaded smoothly underneath her, fingertips gliding up to the back of her neck as he leaned over. Esme shut her eyes as if it would block out his proximity, but it only served to heighten her other senses, and she noticed his scent for the first time. It was _heavenly, _like balsam fir, sandalwood and, good grief, was there _anything_ about this man that wasn't ridiculously attractive?

It was a soothing, euphoric scent, though. Esme relaxed, lost in enjoyment. The way Dr. Cullen's fingers pressed in so gently, moving steadily but thoroughly down all the way to the small of her back, where he pressed a little more firmly- it was like a massage. He didn't touch her anywhere else. When he brought his hands from underneath her, he held her hips gently and pushed down so her rear was pressing more firmly into the mattress.

"Do you feel any pain or uncomfortable pressure at the very base of your spine when I do this?"

"No."

"Very good. "

Then he stepped away, and by the time she opened her eyes, he was already writing down his diagnosis on a hospital form. The exam was over.

"Your left tibia is broken about three inches below your knee, just as you thought. The good news is that there's no worrisome damage to the surrounding tissue, and the vertical splintering isn't severe. Your back is just fine- you'll probably have a little bruising where you landed, but that's all."

"...and the bad news?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say that I'll have to reset your tibia. That will only take a moment, but it's going to hurt. Then we have to get your leg into a full-length cast. You'll have to keep it on for at least twelve weeks, during which time you'll need to keep your weight off of it. That means you'll be using crutches, so I hope you didn't have any big plans for a while."

Actually, that reminded her- Charles was going to take her to the fall festival in six weeks' time. He would be traveling in from Columbus especially, but she'd still be half-encased in plaster.

"I suppose Charles will have to ask someone else to the dance," she murmured.

"Charles?"

She glanced regretfully up at Dr. Cullen. Up until that night, she'd been at least at content, if not enthralled, with her parents' expectations. Over the last few months, she couldn't help but notice how encouraging they were when it came to Charles. He was a charismatic boy, handsome, attentive enough, and came from a family her parents approved of. Her father was great friends with his. It was obvious that they were expected to get together, perhaps not for a year or so, but eventually, and Charles certainly seemed all for it. Now it suddenly seemed like a gloomy prospect.

"Charles Evenson. He's studying business at the university, but he's back for the summer. He's my... well, our parents are good friends, and, well..."

"I see," Dr. Cullen said, bathing her in another of his golden smiles. "Charles is a very lucky young man."

"Thank you." Esme tried to smile back, but it was half-hearted at best.

"I'll get your father now, if you'll excuse me for a moment."

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Cullen."

As soon as the door shut behind him, Esme took advantage of the precious minute alone to smooth out her skirt and wipe her face off, just in case there were streaks left behind from the tears. She felt her braid- loose, just as she suspected, and... what's this? She pulled out strands of foreign matter- bits of leaf, twigs, grass..._ it had been in her hair the whole time_? She stifled a cry of anguish.

She was still morosely contemplating her pathetic appearance when Dr. Cullen came back in, relating the details of the break to her father, who was close behind. She quickly put her hand by her side on the bed and let go of the grass, scattering it gently.

Her father had clearly abandoned all levity. Wearing an angry mope of a frown, he stalked to her bedside and hovered while Dr. Cullen stood on the other side.

"... infection is unlikely," he was saying, "and luckily there's no swelling at present. But that could change over the next day or so, and if it does, she'll need immediate help. The cast will have to come off quickly and the break re-examined. Who's your regular physician?"

"Doc Monash," her father replied. "But he's out of town. That's the only reason we ended up here."

"In that case, and in view of the distance of your home to the nearest medical facility, I'm still recommending that she stay here for observation."

"Are you really sure that's necessary?"

"Yes, at least until Thursday morning."

"What do you mean, 'at least?'"

"In addition to observation, there are a few other matters that need attending to." The doctor smiled down at her. "There's a nurse who comes in during the day, and she can show Esme how take care of herself while she has the cast on. Certain everyday activities will have to be adjusted, and she really ought to practice getting around on crutches before leaving the hospital. Is there someone at home who can help her with things during her convalescence?"

"Her mother can, sure."

"Good. So, let's see how she does for the next day or so...?"

"If that's-a way it's gotta be," came the grumbly answer.

Both men looked down at her at that point, and her cheeks flushed. The doctor, of course, was never unpleasant to look at, and had a lopsided smile on his face. Her father, literally on the other hand, sighed mightily as if to say that she wasn't the only one to be burdened by her injury.

"Well, sweetheart, it looks like you're going to be here for a couple days. I suppose I'd better get home and tell your mother. I'll be here to pick you up on Thursday morning no matter what, though, so you best be ready." He shot a defiant glare at the doctor and then put on his hat, readying to go.

Something distinctly unpleasant had been going on between them ever since they'd come back in from the hallway, and she couldn't imagine what it could be. What had they talked about out there that would send her father storming in the way he had? She glanced at Dr. Cullen, who was gazing at her father intently, his brow furrowed.

"Is there anything you'd like from home for your stay here, Esme?" Dr. Cullen asked quietly.

"Um, I guess I'll need a toothbrush," she murmured, "maybe a few hairpins and a hairbrush, and something to wear home..." she trailed off diminutively before asking for a book or two to read. Her father was glaring daggers at Dr. Cullen, clearly angered by being prompted to drive back and forth to fetch her things, and she didn't want to push it.

"That all?" he asked her, still looking at the doctor.

Esme nodded, shrinking under their exchange.

"She'll be just fine, Mr. Platt," the doctor said, extending his hand. Her father took it, and his gaze clouded, features slack, as if he'd experienced something disturbing. Just as quickly, however, the troubled countenance faded and a something smug took its place.

"Sure she will, kid."

Esme gaped at her father in shock. _Kid?_ Dr. Cullen was clearly young, yes, but she'd never heard her papa address someone with professional status like a doctor's that way. It was unspeakably rude.

"Dr. Carlisle Cullen," came the unperturbed reply.

"Right. Dr. Cullen..." her father frowned as he broke off the handshake. "I'll go get your things, Esme."

"Okay, Papa. Thank you so much."

"Just grow up and quit fallin' out of trees," he mumbled as the door shut behind him.

Try as Esme might, the bed refused to swallow her up as she shrank in utter mortification.

"He's just upset, Miss Platt," the doctor said softly. "He didn't mean it that way."

"Yes, he did. But you're kind for saying otherwise."

He smirked. "I'm afraid you won't think me kind in a few minutes. When I come back, it'll be time to set your leg. I just have to go get the nurse and make a few preparations. Will you be alright?" he asked, placing his hand lightly on her shoulder.

Esme nodded wordlessly, a flurry of emotions coursing through her.

"I'll be right back."

And then she was alone again. She hurriedly tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ears and started feeling for more debris, but gave up, muttering to herself.

"Oh, just stop it, Esme. It's no use."

Even if Charles didn't exist, Dr. Cullen was as unreachable as the stars. The woman to capture his heart would be nothing less than an exquisite, sophisticated beauty right out of an exclusive finishing school. She would be a blueblood of cultivated tastes and knowledge, not some silly, blushing farm girl in a grass-stained dress.

She didn't have long to ponder her obscurity, however. The room was almost immediately bustling with activity. The first person to appear was the orderly, bringing in various instruments and basins of hot water, and then a different nurse joined them.

The stout woman brought over a cup of liquid and leaned Esme up to drink it.

"Here you go," she said. "It tastes awful, I know, but it'll help the pain."

Esme sipped the bitter concoction and her face soured.

"What is it?"

"Just a bit of laudanum, dear."

Esme finished her dose and lay back as the orderly left and the nurse approached again, this time bearing a large, gleaming pair of shears. Esme swallowed, her eyes widening.

It was explained to her that her leg couldn't be shifted yet for fear of aggravating the fracture, but it had to be bare, so her clothing was actually cut off, much to Esme's shock. First her stockings were sliced away, and then her dress-skirt in its entirety. She stared forlornly after the shredded frock as the nurse threw it away in a bin. There was no repairing that dress, she knew. It was far from fashionable, but had been one of her favorites.

Just as she began to wonder if her bloomers were going to be left intact, they were removed as well. She looked at the nurse in terror. Was she really going to be like this when _he_ came back in?

The nurse gave her a knowing smile and retrieved a folded sheet from the stack of supplies the orderly had brought in before.

"Don't worry. We'll get you covered up."

With a few tucks and rolls, the nurse proved good as her word. Feeling the effects of the drug now, Esme shifted pliantly with all the handling. She'd never imagined so much would be done just to get a cast on someone's leg, but it was starting to feel like a very agreeable situation, actually. She decided that she_ really_ liked laudanum.

Esme's good leg was swathed in cotton along with her hips and midriff. The top half of her dress was laid to waste, and then, she was not sorry to see, the damnable corset was disposed of. Esme felt quite warm and content as she was sat up to get a ruffled, pinstriped hospital gown over her head.

_If only every day could be this wonderful,_ she thought. _Breaking a leg is just fine, especially when you can't even feel more than an ache- and then to be tended to by the most handsome, wonderful man in the world, and get all wrapped up in a nice cotton cocoon. Happy, happy day!_

By the time the nurse was done, Esme felt like a mummy, and she didn't even have the cast on yet. The only parts of her uncovered were her broken leg and grassy head. The ruffles on the cuffs of her oversized gown even covered her hands.

She was busy admiring the curiously brilliant pinstripes on the sleeves when she heard Dr. Cullen's voice again, and was surprised she hadn't notice him come in. He was standing by a basin of hot water, soaking his hands in it, washing them, speaking quietly with the nurse. He looked over his shoulder at Esme and she waved at him, grinning.

"Hi!"

"Hello again, Miss Platt." He grinned back, removing his hands from the water and drying them off. "Are you ready to hate me?"

She shook her head. "Never."

The nurse chuckled, and suddenly the orderly appeared out of nowhere, holding a little tube-shaped wooden round, about six inches long.

_What is that for?_ Esme wondered. The answer came quickly. Dr. Cullen approached and nodded at the nurse.

"Okay, dear. Now open your mouth wide," the nurse instructed.

Esme did, and the orderly pressed the wooden round in it, like a bit for a horse, and held it fast while the nurse leaned over on Esme's torso and pinned her arms. She didn't have the chance to do more than gurgle briefly in protest when she felt the doctor's warm hands take hold of her leg and apply pressure. An internal _snap!_ reverberated through her body. The world went blinding white with pain and her teeth snapped down on the wood, grinding into it.

When the world came back into focus several moments later, the wood was gone, but her slackened jaw was sore, and she was nauseated. The laudanum wasn't so fun anymore.

Listless, she tried to keep track of the movement around her- the nurse and orderly were ripping open packages of Plaster of Paris and dumping them into the basins... long swaths of gauze were being unrolled. Then she noticed Dr. Cullen was wrapping her break in some kind of bandage- but he was looking at her face.

"Sorry about that," he said with a frown.

She tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

"It's okay, Esme, just relax now. This is going to take a little while. If you feel like going to sleep, it's okay."

She shook her head, _no._ She didn't want to sleep. There would time for sleeping later.

Although, truth be told, she wasn't completely awake right then. Between the shock, fatigue and laudanum, she felt lost in thick, dull fog.

Esme watched in delirium for as long as she could, pondering the night's events. This was the last thing she'd expected to be doing tonight. What a funny twist of fate. It felt like the sunset she'd intended to gaze at must have taken place days ago, not mere hours. Meanwhile, warm, soppy gauze dripping with chalky liquid was being wrapped around her leg in layer after layer, hardening, setting. It was a messy process. As the doctor worked with the other two, she could barely feel anything, including his hands, but just the nearness of him was wonderful.

_Stay awake,_ she chanted inside. There was no telling if she'd see him again during her hospital stay. He might not be on duty after tonight, so what if this was the last time she'd ever see him? Esme's heart rebelled against such a notion, but she probably ought to be prepared for that, she reasoned groggily. There was only one thing to do- enjoy it while it lasted. _Stay awake, stay awake..._

_Carlisle. _She sighed his name to herself inside. Even his name was beautiful. _Carlisle Cullen. Doctor Carlisle Cullen.  
_  
Despite herself, Esme dozed off with his name in her mind, his blazing, golden eyes the last thing she saw.


	3. Most Grievous Loss

Chapter 2 – Most Grievous Loss

_But how could I forget thee? Through what power,  
Even for the least division of an hour,  
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind  
To my most grievous loss?-That thought's return  
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,  
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,  
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;  
That neither present time, nor years unborn  
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore._

_- Desideria_ by William Wordsworth

* * *

**It was late** in the morning when Esme woke, and her father had long since come and gone, leaving her things with the nurses. After lunch, which she was ravenous for, a nurse who specialized in cases like hers spent the afternoon with her, going over all the changes she'd have to make in her daily rituals to accommodate the heavy cast on her leg. It wasn't long before Esme was able to get around her hospital room on crutches smoothly, and then they spent another hour or so in the hallway, and on a set of stairs, which she had trouble with at first. But the shudder-inducing pain of a couple clumsy bumps quickly had her trained not to let her injured leg get jostled by anything. And then came learning how to bathe herself so the cast wouldn't get wet.

She was exhausted when they helped her into bed at the end of the day. After some supper, Esme settled back to watch the sunset out the window, grateful that the ache in her leg was starting to diminish.

Fantastic violets and oranges streaked across the lazy summer twilight. It had been another sunny, warm day outside, and Esme was starting to realize that the rest of the summer was lost to her, as well as the fall. She'd probably end up spending most of it at home, inside or out on the porch. By the time she was out of the cast, there would probably be snow on the ground.

She tried not to think about Dr. Cullen, especially when she considered how silly she'd been after taking the laudanum. How embarrassing. Besides, even if it were possible to redeem herself, it wasn't certain she'd see him that night, and she was going home the next day- her father had evidently spoken with the day staff, still insisting that she go home Thursday regardless of their recommendation that she be given one more day to practice with the crutches. She still wasn't sure why he was so determined. Perhaps it was all too expensive.

Also, she knew she might be asleep by the time the doctor was working that night, and even if she was awake, there wasn't much reason for him to come by. The nurses had been the ones checking for swelling, and there hadn't been any.

When it was finally dark, boredom set in. Her body had recovered from the day's exertions, and her mind was restless. The lantern on the side table was burning low, creating a pool of warm light around her bed, but the rest of the room was dark and shadowy. She wished she'd asked her father for a book, after all. She'd seen some on shelves in the hospital lobby earlier, but hadn't been inspired to grab one- they were all childrens' books and westerns. At one time westerns might have tempted her, but she'd learned her lesson after about a dozen of them. Instead of the stories of high adventure and sweeping grandeur she hoped for, usually westerns were about lawmen and outlaws who eventually got together in dusty places to shoot at each other.

At least the window was open, though. Cricket song and the scent of honeylocust blossoms drifted in through the mesh screen, chasing away the sterility of the hospital. Soothed, she thought maybe she could sleep if she counted backwards from 1000. So she closed her eyes and began murmuring the numbers quietly to the dark.

At 821, the doorknob turned so quietly that she didn't notice someone was coming in until the door creaked.

She looked and, recognizing his silhouette immediately, Esme scooted up as Dr. Cullen drifted silently into the light by her bed. Her memory of him hadn't done him any justice. Good grief, he was beautiful.

"Good evening, Miss Platt. I see you're still awake."

She nodded, trying not to look as ridiculously happy as she felt.

"I hope I'm not intruding?"

"Not at all. It's good to see you."

"You look like you feel better tonight."

"Much better, thank you," she replied, grateful not only for feeling better, but looking better than the last time he saw her, too. She was now in one of her own pretty nightgowns that her mother had packed for her, with her wavy, caramel hair brushed to a high shine and her face scrubbed clean. Anything would have been an improvement over the previous night.

"Slept late today?"

"Yes. Almost until eleven."

"I thought you might. It was past three when your cast was finally set. I hope you feel rested."

"Yes," she said with a nod. "But the trouble with sleeping in is that it makes it so much harder to get to sleep later the same night."

Dr. Cullen smiled knowingly. "Here, I brought you this." He withdrew a small book from the oversized pocket of his lab coat. "I thought that you might be restless tonight. I know all too well what it's like to have to sit by yourself someplace with no distractions."

Esme looked at him in astonishment. "Thank you."

Such a small thing, this book, but it meant so much; it meant he'd been thinking about her at some point, however briefly, during the day. It was just a little token to him, of course, but it was her favorite book in the world before she even saw the title. But after taking it from his pale, outstretched hand, and seeing what it was, appreciating its contents was automatic.

"Oh, it's been so long since I've read them." She grinned in delight. "I've always wanted my own copy. Thank you!"

"You've read Shakespeare's sonnets before?"

"When I was eleven." She nodded, examining the little book appreciatively. It was a very fine edition. "One of my second cousins who visited at Christmastime that year brought her copy. She had a hard time getting it away from me." Esme paused then, noticing the inscription on the inside of the cover. She'd heard that doctors were supposed to have horrible penmanship, but they didn't deserve that reputation, if Dr. Cullen's elegant script was any indication.

"'_For Esme,'" _she voiced softly. _"'May you only read these sonnets while perched in a tree, or to escape boredom while broken bones are knitting. Your friend, Carlisle Cullen. 14 August, 1911.'_ Thank you," she murmured, looking up into his warm gaze.

"I only wish I'd chosen something you haven't read before," he replied. "You're full of surprises, Miss Platt."

"So are you, Dr. Cullen." Her eyes flashed in merriment as she set the book on her lap. "Did you climb any trees on your way to work?"

He grinned. "No, not this evening, but I did this morning on the way home."

"No, not really?"

"All our talking about it last night put me in the mood to watch the sunrise that way."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all." He looked at her inquisitively. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

"It's not - I just... doesn't anyone ever look at you funny when you do that?"

"Well, nobody's ever around to watch, I admit. I tend to stray from the beaten path. But I suppose you're right. If I was seen climbing around the way I do, people would look at me 'funny.'"

"I wouldn't."

"No. I'm certain that you wouldn't, Esme," he said gently, and his gaze softened, fastening on her.

Esme felt a thrill from her tummy to her toes, and her heart quickened to three times normal rhythm. Struck speechless, she let her head drift back into the raised pillows and returned his silent gaze, waiting for the doctor to ask about swelling, crutches… anything. And once, it did look like he was about to say something, but then changed his mind. Only cricket song filled the room, and they just watched each other. He was so still, just gazing at her while her heart fluttered.  
_  
He couldn't be like this with his other patients, could he?_ she wondered. _No. They'd all die of heart attacks and he wouldn't have a job anymore._

A unfamiliar, tender warmth flooded into her as the intimate contemplation continued, and she felt like she could keep sharing it with him, just like this, forever. But her breathing was going to get audibly labored if she didn't speak. Esme searched for her voice, and finding it, spoke quietly.

"Maybe... maybe when my leg is healed, we could go climbing together."

He replied softly. "I would truly like that, but I'm afraid that I won't be in Columbus that long. My residency here is over in about three weeks. I'm expected in Texas after that."

Her heart sank like lead. "Oh. I see. That's... too bad."

"Yes, it is. I would have liked to get to know you better, Miss Platt."

"Me too." She managed a small nod. _This is it. The last night I'll ever see him._ "But we can still talk for a few minutes now, can't we?"

"Certainly," he said, sitting on the edge of a chair by her bed.

"Do you have family in Texas?"

"No, I haven't any family."

"Not at all? Not even parents?"

He shook his head. "I was an only child; my mother died when I was born, and my father when I was a young man."

Esme's brow furrowed. "If I may ask, how old _are_ you?"

"Thirty-two."

So much? That was a bit surprising. He looked like he couldn't be older than in his mid-twenties, thirty at most. Then again, his eyes did seem older than the rest of him. How sad that he had no family, and his mother...

"Your mother- she died in childbirth?"

He nodded once.

"Is that why you wanted to become a doctor?"

Dr. Cullen's expression turned into a mix of curiosity and surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she added hastily. "I'm prying. Please forgive me."

"No, there's nothing to forgive. I'm not offended, Miss Platt. It's just that that's never occurred to me before. I chose medicine out of a determination to be helpful to people, but... now that you mention it, I wouldn't be surprised if, perhaps, some part of that determination came from wanting to make up for what my birth did to her. I hadn't really thought of it before... but it's possible." He cocked his head, a new fascination in his eyes. "You're quite perceptive."

"Not really," Esme admitted. "My friend, Rosemary McGill, wants to go into nursing, particularly midwifery, because of the same thing. Her mother died having her, and she's always felt so terrible about it. I can't even imagine."

He still looked contemplative. "I shouldn't have brought you the sonnets. Perhaps _Paradise Lost_ would have been a better choice."

Esme chuckled. "Isn't that something like ten volumes long?"

"Twelve, depending on the edition... but at least it would stand a chance of keeping your mind occupied," he said with a guileless smile. "So what about you, Miss Platt? Does Mr. Evenson plan to stay here in Ohio?"

Her brow knitted in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Last night you mentioned your friend, Charles. I was under the impression you're betrothed."

"Oh," she exclaimed softly. She'd forgotten all about Charles. "Well, sort of. Our families would certainly like us to get married. It's not official yet, but it will be soon, most likely. I think he's waiting until I'm seventeen to propose. I don't know exactly what his plans are - he has so many of them - but he talks mostly of buying land and starting a farm of his own. The business degree he's studying for is pretty focused on agriculture."

"I hope you'll pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem terribly excited about it."

"I'm not," she admitted, casting her eyes down. "Charles would make a good husband, I think, and I do like him, but I don't want to get married just yet." _Unless you asked me, _she added silently. _I'd say "yes" so quick your head would spin._ "There are other things I'd like to do before I have a family of my own."

"And what would those be?"

Esme bit her lip... she hadn't told anyone about what she was now itching to tell Dr. Cullen. She looked out at the night for a brief moment before turning back to him, her eyes alight.

"My second cousin, Charlotte, the one whose book I all but stole? She took a trip out west last year with her family, and wrote letters to me along the way. She told me about this place in Montana they stopped in, right near Yellowstone. The way she described the mountains and rivers... it sounded so beautiful. She said that new towns are springing up all over, and it looked like teachers are in short supply. I think I'd really like teaching, and I would love to go there, to see that place."

"Why don't you?"

She rolled her eyes and laughed shortly. "My parents wouldn't care for that much. I'll be lucky if I can talk my father into letting me attend the university here in Columbus after I graduate, and that's only ten miles from home. He'd flip his lid if I said I wanted to go teach in Montana."

"You don't remember the secret I told you last night, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well...?"

She returned his wry smile before reciting his words.

"'When people won't give you any good reasons for limiting yourself to their way of doing things, it's usually because they don't have any.'"

"I hope you'll keep it in mind."

And then his smile faded, as if a pleasant thought had been interrupted. A few moments later, he turned in the chair as the door opened and electric light from the hallway sliced into Esme's warmly lit bedside like a blade from another dimension. A nurse's silhouette darkened the frame.

"Oh, good- Dr. Cullen. When you're done here, Mr. Clark has a few questions for you about his medications, and Mrs. Kinsey is here with more complaints of stomach troubles."

"Thank you, Stella. I'll be right there."

The nurse disappeared but the door remained open, and as Dr. Cullen turned back to her, Esme tried to turn the corners of her mouth up into something resembling a smile and swallowed, clearing the tightening in her throat. They'd had so little time to talk. But there were others who needed him more, she told herself.

"Even on slow nights, there's always quite a bit to do." He smirked regretfully, rising from the chair. "But I shouldn't keep you up any later as it is."

"Thank you so much for the book, doctor. And for last night with my leg."

"It was my pleasure, and I'd like to thank you, as well, for your company. I've enjoyed it." He paused. "Before I go, I suppose I should ask you if your broken leg is bothering you, though I hope you would have spoken up by now if you were in terrible pain."

"Yes," Esme chuckled. "It aches a little, but not enough to worry about."

"I understand you were given aspirin earlier, but if the pain gets worse, don't hesitate to ring."

"Okay." She immediately quashed the impetuous notion of ringing later, even if her leg didn't hurt.

"Would you like a sedative?"

"No, thank you." She patted the book on her lap. "I'll be fine now."

"Well, then... I've heard you're checking out tomorrow morning, so I suppose this is farewell." Dr. Cullen's eyes, amber in the lamplight, softened again.

Fighting off the tightening in her throat, Esme only nodded and returned his gaze in silence, basking in his prolonged contemplation of her, and she couldn't help but entertain the notion that he seemed reluctant to leave. Once more, her insides were diffused with aching warmth and longing that seemed to emanate from him, and she yearned to touch him just one last time... she could hardly help it, lifting her right hand for a shake. Dr. Cullen glanced at it, smiling a little as he closed the distance to her bedside.

"I should warn you, my hands are a little cold right now," he said, reaching out.

"I don't mind."

Their hands fastened, and her breath caught. _He wasn't joking,_ was the first thing Esme thought; his hand really _was_ freezing cold. But then her heart seemed to lodge in her throat when she realized he wasn't shaking her hand- he was lifting it to his lips, bending over her. Poised several inches over her heart, Dr. Cullen let his eyes drift shut and his mouth caressed the back of her fingers with a chaste, tender kiss. It wasn't the first time a man had kissed her hand, but it was the first time it awakened something in her. His lips, like his hand, were so cold, but created a riot of heat that made the ache inside become acute. His strange, warm eyes opened again, meeting her thrilled gaze as he gently set her hand back down on the book, and then rose.

"Take good care of yourself, Esme."

"...a-and you, too, Dr. Cullen."

With a small smile, he turned away into the shadows, and then became a silhouette that disappeared as the door creaked shut behind him.

The sigh that escaped Esme in that moment was a release of joy, grief, amazement, thrill and frustration all at once. She felt like swooning and jumping up and down in excitement and screaming all at the same time. It drove her to distraction, the outrageous _injustice_ of having barely met this man just when he was stepping out of her world forever. And, although she was certain that her imagination was at work at least a little bit, he'd seemed to genuinely like her, too.

Esme stewed about it for a while, but then decided that, for all the loss she felt, the gain was greater. She would much rather have known him for just that brief time than never at all. It should be a memory to treasure, not become miserable about.

And, most perplexing, she found herself entertaining new possibilities as she stared out at the night, listening to the crickets and smelling the honeylocusts. She wanted to get married and have her own family someday, but _why not_ wait a couple years? She could delay things for that long, she was sure. Maybe it wasn't such a far-flung idea, going to Montana to teach. She was already incredibly close to convincing her father to let her go to the university. She knew he only thought of it as something he should allow so she'd get married peaceably after getting it out of her system, but maybe she'd be able to use that time to further persuade her parents that she was capable of taking care of herself on her own, and they'd give their blessings. Or maybe Charles would want to go to Montana, too, though that seemed unlikely.

Esme stayed quite still for a long time, contemplating her future, before finally cracking open Shakespeare's sonnets to a random page. It turned out to be sonnet twenty-six.

Her memory is a place of extremes. Such crystalline recollection is hard to come by in any mind, let alone in the long-dead human memories of one of our kind. Yet every syllable, nuance, smell, sight and sound of those encounters with Carlisle Cullen exist enshrined to near-perfection in Esme's memory. And at the same time, nearly all that should come afterward is, instead, a conspicuously empty void- much blacker than most.

I suppose it's no wonder, really, since the rest of her brief life offered so little worth remembering, and that she actively tried to forget so much of it. There are scraps left here and there, like the scattered debris of a shipwreck bobbing on the ocean surface. If you gather them together and examine them, you'll find that she lasted quite a while - around five years - before her family and the ardent Charles Evenson finally wore her down. She did, indeed, get to go to school in Columbus for two years, and in that time she even got her teaching certificate. There are a some foggy but pleasant recollections of her sorority house, and Charles, who courted Esme quite intensively despite her first refusal of his proposal. Finally a time came when he got frustrated with her and gave up.

One of her memories is of a heated discussion with her parents when she came back home, having finished school and gotten her certificate. She'd brought up her wish to go out west. She knew her father wouldn't approve, but she didn't think he'd react as badly as he did. He didn't just say no, he forbade it, and said if she did that, he'd never forgive her. Right away she saw that there was no chance of ever wheedling any approval out him on the idea. The fact that Charles had given up on courting her had done more damage than she thought.

And then comes a few scraps of watching all her friends get married, and the subdued celebration of her 21st birthday, which Charles and his parents attended. He looked very handsome and sucessful, and gave her a lovely brooch, along with the news that he'd just bought the McGill's farm. She knew the place. Her friend Rosemary grew up there. Very well to-do. The house was beautiful, the many acres fertile and well-tended. There was a large, cold pond, and practically new barn and stables. There were good bunkhouses, too because the McGills did hardly any of the farming themselves; they had hired hands. Since Rosemary had married and moved to Pennsylvania, it was just Mr. McGill there, and he'd passed on the previous year. Charles was thrilled with the purchase, and had also acquired a position at a bank in town. He could carry on the same style Mr. McGill had.

She remembers the first time she heard snide remarks about her unmarried status, living at home with her parents with no prospects. The henpecking and chidings from her parents for wanting to do something as "vapid and reckless" as live on her own in a far-away wilderness. She thought about earning enough money to go and chase her dream anyway, but the price- alienating her parents and breaking their hearts- was too great. She was their only child. How could she be so selfish? Why was she so set against any of this? Marriage was a fine life. Her friends were enjoying themselves.

When Charles asked her again to marry him, she said yes.

Her wedding took place on a rainy September morning, and while her memories before that day aren't numerous, there are even fewer after it, and it's dispiriting to discover what remains.

She was bitterly shocked to find out that Charles Evenson's pleasant demeanor was a camouflage that masked a hideous temper... a temper that flared violently, especially when he was drinking.

Esme's leg wasn't the last bone of hers that was broken, but it was the last one treated in a hospital. She rarely left the house she shared with Charles, in order to avoid answering questions about the swelling and bruises. Only twice was a doctor called to tend to her, and even then it was their housekeeper who'd called. Charles fired the poor woman after the second time.

When she realized that there was nothing she could do - no way to behave, no rules to follow - that would protect her from Charles, she found the courage to ask her parents for help, no matter what it would do to their friendship with the elder Evensons. They visited one afternoon, arriving before Charles got in from work, and she couldn't help it when she told them how mistreated she was... she burst into tears.

Perhaps she should have waited for a different time, she thought afterward. There were no bruises to see that day. They saw a beautiful house and a new maid and their beautifully dressed daughter, who was lucky to have gotten another chance at the life she had. They treated her pleas for help as the overwrought melodrama of a girl who didn't know how to be a decent wife.

By the end of the first year of her marriage, cruel disappointment had turned into numbness and the constant, dull ache of dread. Esme stopped crying about the way things had turned out... except for when she had the dreams.

They always came right after Charles had been especially violent and... possessive. She would find herself waking up to the scent of honeylocusts and the sound of crickets, her eyes drifting open to a warm pool of light from a lantern next to her bed. Sitting in that light, watching her with amber eyes, was Dr. Cullen. She would murmur a sleepy hello, and he would smile. They would drift into quiet, pleasant conversation, or just look at each other in silence. He would often reach out and hold her hand.

And then something would wake her up again, this time to reality.

As painful as the beatings were, waking up from those peaceful, soothing dreams hurt even worse. Esme learned how to cry very, very quietly if Charles was still in bed with her when she woke up from them.

She berated herself for having the dreams to begin with. Dr. Cullen had never been a suitor of hers, not even close. He probably wouldn't even remember her if they met again, which in itself was beyond unlikely. She imagined that Dr. Cullen had probably, by then, found a wife, and perhaps had a happy brood of children who, she fancied, would have his golden hair and eyes. Perhaps, she thought, the dreams were just her conscience troubling her, reminding her that she should have taken his advice. But she hadn't. She'd let them all talk her into doing something she hadn't wanted to, even though they hadn't ever offered up any good reasons.

Other than that, she tried not to think of Carlisle. It just hurt too much.

And then came the year that a killer flu began its sweep through the country. Charles had been drafted in April, and was overseas by the time the disease began its relentless march from state to state. And although there was relative calm in her world with her monstrous husband gone, it wasn't peaceful. Esme was lucky enough not to contract the deadly fever, but hundreds in her community did, and among those many died. During October it got so bad that hearses passed by the farm every day on their way to the cemetery a few miles south- the dead were always buried quickly. Charles wrote, telling of the same disease killing off thousands in Europe. The words "epidemic" and "La Grippe" were becoming frequent, and then "Spanish Flu." The newspaper printed a long, stark list of regional casualties in the Sunday edition, and doctors and nurses were always among the dead. The Platt's own longtime physician, Dr. Orin Monash, fell to the disease, along with his two oldest children.

When she heard that the flu had begun to take hold in Texas, Esme found herself haunted; there was something about Dr. Cullen's life to be certain of. She knew, no matter what else was going on in his world, he would be knee-deep in the disease, working tirelessly, trying to help however he could.

During her prayers at night, which were becoming longer and longer, she was duty-bound to mention her husband who was on the other side of the Atlantic, no doubt indulging his dark nature on the battlefields. Outside of her prayers, she sometimes found herself completely at ease with the idea of Charles being blasted out of whatever trench he was in, but carefully avoided such thoughts as a rule. Sometimes, though, she forgot to mention him in her prayers. But Esme always prayed fervently that Carlisle Cullen was alright, that the flu he was no doubt battling every day wouldn't get him. And when she felt venturesome enough to plead for a little extra, she prayed that he was flourishing, that there was love in his life, and that those he loved were also safe.

Charles returned unharmed from Europe, and her memories of the year that followed go ominously black again.

Then comes the one memory Esme has, outside of those involving Carlisle, that is truly clear - the day she discovered she was pregnant, and made the choice to leave Charles Evenson. There was no good reason to stay. None at all.

And one very precious reason to go.

She ran to her second cousin, Charlotte, in Milwaukee, and spent a few peaceful months which ended abruptly when an angry letter from her parents arrived. It meant only one thing to her: they knew her whereabouts, which meant Charles was soon to follow. Charlotte gave her some seed money, and then Esme was set adrift with no family or friends, and a growing life depending on her- a life she loved so profoundly that it's almost unbearable to vicariously experience it in her mind.

You'll then find that she traveled as far as her means allowed, to a Wisconsin laketown called Ashland. At first, things there promised a measure of stability. Determined to avoid being discovered again, she used an alias, passing herself off as just another war widow. She even acquired work as a schoolteacher.

Then her memories turn to something she can't bear to remember for longer than a few moments at a time, yet doesn't want to forget; they settle tenderly on her precious infant boy, turning cold from crib death after a short week of life.

At last, you'll find Esme standing on a rocky ledge far above Lake Superior, staring blankly out at a windy November night. Esme Anne Evenson didn't jump from those cliffs. She let herself fall, like a rag doll whose hand had just been released by a careless child.

She was twenty-six years old.

* * *

**_A/N: Thank you for reading._**


	4. Ashes, Ashes

Chapter 3 - Ashes, Ashes

_Ring around the rosy,_

_A pocketful of posies_

_Ashes, ashes_

_We all fall down_

- nursery rhyme, derivation circa 1665, during the Great Plague of London

_Chicago, Illinois - November, 1918_

**There is **a certain euphemism, often attributed to the Chinese, that says, _"May you live in interesting times." _

I wasn't aware of it until just after my seventeenth birthday, but I grew up in interesting times. Even the war I wanted to go fight in, the one that had stretched all over the globe, unprecedented in its scale, hadn't opened my eyes to just how extraordinary my times were.

What did it, what shoved me into that realization, was when my father died of fever without so much as a day's warning. After it happened, I remember looking around my once-secure world with an unwelcome new perspective, realizing that _none_ of us would ever forget 1918.

Morgues were overflowing with victims of the pandemic. Railroads were paralyzed by all the quarantines springing up all over the country. There was no school. Whole towns were falling into abandoned silence. Children chanted morbid little rhymes as they played:

_Well I had a little bird_

_and it's name was Enza_

_I opened a window_

_and in-flu-enza_

That was the year Spanish Influenza ravaged the country. By the time it was done with us, more than a half million had died, and unlike other plagues that seemed to cull only the weak, it also targeted the youngest and strongest. It stole us quickly, sometimes within hours of the first symptoms appearing. That's how it claimed my father in the summer, during its first rapid wave.

My mother and I fell ill within the same week that winter, just after Armistice Day, and the timing of it was like the twist of a knife in an old wound. Everyone was finally ready to put the flu behind them, to get on with their lives. We thought it was over.

The holiday season loomed ahead, and the idea of my father's absence during that time was almost unbearable. But my mother and I didn't speak of it, instead going through the motions of making all the usual plans, trying to be strong for each other. I'd never really had to do anything with the planning before, but that year it fell to me to arrange the charitable donations my father usually made to the Salvation Army, Red Cross, and various local church foundations. He even sponsored public projects and scholarships. I'd never realized how generous he was until then, and it only made me miss him all the more. We were dreading going through the holidays without him, but, as it turned out, we wouldn't have to.

I don't remember which of us got sick first- it seemed almost simultaneous. The second wave of the flu hit Chicago in October, though my mother and I didn't get it until November, and unlike my father, we lasted for almost a week, following the flu's more usual pattern. She had us checked into St. Luke's right after the first few sniffles. I remember the stark fear when we walked through the doors, knowing what was in store for us... the routine of signing papers... changing into hospital clothes... trying to ignore the desperate determination and exhaustion in the eyes of the nurses and doctors.

I remember how she looked after me. After losing my father, she was all the more desperate to keep me alive, even at the price of her own health. She spent very little time in bed the first few days, refusing to leave my side... helping me try to eat, reading to me, cleaning me. She _did_ seem strong, too, like she might just pull through and be one of the lucky ones. I begged that she get some rest and look after herself, but she refused, even when I got angry about it. My father always said I got my stubborn streak from her, and our time in St. Luke's proved it. She wouldn't budge, and if I'd been strong enough, I would've physically removed her from my bedside and put her in her own bed. But I wasn't strong enough.

It was only after I was too far gone to hope for recovery that she faltered. I remember waking up one afternoon, and she asked me something, but I couldn't understand her, couldn't focus on anything but trying to breathe, and passed out shortly. The next time I woke up, I was more lucid, and she was still there, but pale, wheezing... the light in her eyes was gone.

My fever had broken, only to resume with frenetic energy. Bronchial pneumonia settled in, readying its death grip. Between fits of wretched coughing, every shallow, wheezing breath was a struggle. My throat was scorched and raw. My whole body ached to the core, even my eyes.

I knew I was on my deathbed, and, strangely, coming to terms with it wasn't so difficult. Perhaps it was because my father had died, and I knew my mother wasn't going to make it, either. Maybe it was because I'd already imagined my own death so many times taking place elsewhere, in the trenches of war in Europe. After the Zimmerman telegram had come to light, it was clear that the German-led Axis nations were determined to reach right into our own country, and I'd so badly wanted to enlist, to go fight. And although I'd often imagined a triumphant return, sometimes I pictured the pine box with the flag draped over it. It didn't seem like a bad way to go.

I just hadn't been quite old enough to volunteer, and since my father had died, I'd realized I'd be needed more at home, at least for a while. But Armistice Day had been declared, and it looked like the war was at an end.

But I was dying anyway, there in that hospital, which was like a slap in the face. It wouldn't be a hail of bullets or being rendered to pieces by mortar shells that would be my demise, but a microscopic bug.

I was in the same boat as everyone else, though, and if that microscopic bug could kill someone as strong and vital as my father in mere hours, I didn't stand a chance.

We were lucky to be in St. Luke's, really. So many had to make do with the temporary hospitals that sprang up in the streets to handle what the primary hospitals couldn't. But even St. Luke's was a place of misery. Understaffed and overcrowded, every room, bed and cot was occupied by a constant, rotating stream of the dead and dying. Some days just a few died, other days they'd succumb by dozens.

And when I say days, I mean it. It's funny... when darkness descended and the official nature of daytime subsided, so did the cacophony of groans and misery. The patients in my ward who weren't sleeping would try to stay quiet, too polite to vocalize their wretchedness at night. There was only the occasional burst of coughing... a murmured plea now and again when a nurse came by.

For me, with most of the other patients asleep, the subdued hours after midnight brought lucidity. It was easier to think, to reckon with what was coming.

It was also when Dr. Cullen was on shift, which had come to be a relief. He was the only one my mother would listen to when she was advised to do something for herself.

I was hovering on the edge of consciousness one night when he came, materializing unobtrusively, to find my mother sitting by my bed with her head on my lap, drifting in and out of awareness the same as I was. I don't remember what she'd been reading to me before her words faded from mumbling to deep, labored breathing, but the book still lay open in her hand. Dr. Cullen gently removed it.

"I should have known better than to expect she'd be in bed," he whispered at me, smirking. She stirred at his words, opening her fever-glittering eyes to greet him with a wan smile of her own.

"Oh. Good evening, Dr. Cullen." She turned her gaze to me and said, "Edward looks better this evening. Doesn't he look better to you?"

Her hope for my recovery rallied when he was around, as though he could somehow miraculously turn it around for us. I didn't have the heart to tell her how foolish her hope was. Carlisle Cullen didn't have a cure for influenza. No one did.

"Indeed, he does. Let me help you to bed, Mrs. Masen."

"No, thank you. I'm comfortable here."

I interjected as strenuously as I could, but I don't think it came out as more than a soft mutter.

"Mom, please lie down for a while. I'd feel better if you did."

Still she hesitated.

"Please, Mom."

"I'll stay with Edward, Elizabeth." Dr. Cullen held her, guiding her to stand. "Just get some rest for now. You'll want the energy to help him eat his breakfast in the morning, won't you?"

I hadn't been able to keep any food down for two days, but the hopeful inducement proved to be enough for her. After wavering, her eyes glazing as if she was about to lose consciousness, she acquiesced to let him take her to the bed next to mine- an arrangement Dr. Cullen had seen to.

She was muttering that she could stand, could do it on her own, as he effortlessly lowered her to the mattress and tucked her under the blanket. I was always nonplussed by how easy things like that were for him. He moved more effortlessly, more gracefully than Olympic athletes, even when doing something as mundane as walking.

I'd heard a few admiring remarks from the other staff about how little Dr. Cullen rested or thought of himself. I'd thought it was only uncommon courage that kept him from showing exhaust or concern about getting infected. He never faltered, no matter how miserable things got, not even when his fellow doctors and nurses got sick.

He placed a fresh compress to my mother's forehead and sat down beside her while she murmured something unintelligible to my ears. All I heard of her words were, "tell him..."

"No, no need for that, Elizabeth," Dr. Cullen murmured. "He loves you, he knows. And you can tell him yourself tomorrow."

I watched as he gently brushed a few sweat-soaked strands of bronze hair from her face. In that moment, I missed my father so much it hurt, and I couldn't look anymore. I turned my head the other way, staring dazedly at the blue-ringed glow of a nearby lantern.

He returned to my side a little while later.

"Edward? She's asleep now," he said.

"You don't have to stay with me, Dr. Cullen."

"I know," he replied. "Would you mind if I did, though?"

I shook my head, I think. I was so weak that I couldn't even be sure my body was obeying commands to move. But I must have.

"Thank you," he said, sitting on the stool my mother had occupied. "How are you? Any more tremors?"

Again, I shook my head and looked at him. "My Mom? How do you think she's...?"

I didn't finish, mostly because I ran out of breath, but also because I didn't have to. The look on his face told me that he knew my question, and that the answer wasn't good; not something I wanted to hear, not something he wanted to say.

"I wish she would've rested more," I muttered.

"That's nearly impossible when it comes to mothers with sick children," he said with a half-smirk. "One day you'll understand."

Then his countenance darkened, as though he regretted saying that last part. That's when I really knew he didn't think I'd make it, and my every breath bubbled with the suffocating fluid slowly filling my lungs, confirming his fears.

It was alright, though. I knew what was coming, even though he'd always insisted that neither of us should give up hope. He'd done so much...

"Thanks for helping her," I said. "The way she's taking this, it makes me wonder how she would have coped if I'd been able to go fight in France after all."

Uttering so many words in one breath was a mistake. My lungs convulsively rebelled against the loss of what little air was in them, and a violent fit of coughing shook me. My stomach muscles crunched, asphyxiated, the spasms lifting my head from the pillow.

A cool, solid arm wrapped around my back immediately, supporting my weight. Dr. Cullen sat on the edge of my bed, easing me forward to direct my cough into a handkerchief, and through blurred vision I saw red spattering the crisp white fabric, like sprays of blood on snow.

"S-sorry..." I hacked.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he muttered. When my coughing finally relented, he wiped away bloody foam from my mouth while I slumped against him in exhausted humiliation. He disposed of the handkerchief and took a glass of water from the table next to my bed. "Here, drink some of this."

But I couldn't right then. I gazed limply at the glass through pooling tears, my throat closed off tight to keep back a sob. Being propped up like that by him, unable to even sit up on my own... the humiliation disintegrated my carefully constructed acceptance of the situation, misery and resentment welling to the surface. I _hated _being so damned helpless. I hated where we were, what had happened to us. We didn't deserve this. I didn't want to die.

"It's alright, Edward. Nothing to be ashamed about, please."

Still holding me up, his hand came to my forehead, refreshingly cold against my burning skin, calming.

_Don't spend the last day of your life bawling, _I told myself. _It's going to happen. It's okay. It happens to everyone, and no one really gets to choose when. It's my time, that's all. _

I managed to take a shaky breath and closed my eyes, the tears draining back, unspilled. After a moment, I opened them again and he helped me take a drink. I took the few sips I had strength enough to swallow, glancing over at my mother, relieved to see that my coughing fit hadn't woken her. Dr. Cullen then eased me back onto the pillow, and I tried to let my breathing even out as he moved back to the stool, watching me.

I understood why my mother's hopes were shored up in his presence. Looking into his strangely golden-hued eyes somehow brought a measure of peace. There was a profound wisdom and compassion in them-- though sometimes a troubled sadness, as just then. I spoke again, more carefully, whispering, breathing between words.

"Thank you... for being so... kind... to her."

"No need to thank me, Edward." He glanced down and smiled apologetically when his gaze returned. "It's not wise for doctors to get attached to their patients, but I must confess I've grown rather fond of you both."

I'd sensed that, somehow... and I wondered how many of his patients he'd had to watch die, how rotten it would feel to endure that over and over again, let alone when he cared the way he did for my mother and me. Very soon he would be closing our eyes underneath his hand, too.

"I'm sorry," I told him.

His brow furrowed, and I knew he knew what I meant.

"As am I," he murmured. "Sleep, Edward."

I did so gratefully, as he remained.

And he was there the next evening, waking me. I don't remember if it was the first time I woke up that day. It may have been. But I do know it was the last. I struggled languidly out of the stupor when his cold hand took mine. I tried to focus my watery vision on him while he told me gently that my mother had just succumbed.

The throb of grief weakly collapsed into acceptance. Through the delirium I knew... I would see my parents again very soon.

And somehow, because Carlisle Cullen was there, I didn't feel alone in the world for the short time I had left in it. I sank restfully again into unconsciousness, aware that I wouldn't wake again.


	5. And Death Shall Have No Dominion

Chapter 4 - And Death Shall Have No Dominion

_And death shall have no dominion.  
Under the windings of the sea  
They lying long shall not die windily;  
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,  
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;  
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,  
And the unicorn evils run them through;  
Split all ends up, they shan't crack;  
And death shall have no dominion._

_- _from _And Death Shall Have No Dominion_ by Dylan Thomas

* * *

**In the** slumber of death, I dreamt of it. Dr. Cullen was still there- now the cool, comforting being who would usher me into the beyond. He cradled me in his arms as we ascended from the suffering of the hospital into a winter evening, racing beneath the starry sky over Chicago. I was lost in a tide of motion, graceful and boundless... and there the dream faded to a warm cocoon of darkness, a profound solace with only his voice.

"It will all be over soon, I promise."

That's when I felt fresh, sharp pain under my jaw. My hands, weak and desperate, proved useless to stop the attack on my throat. Cullen was there, his icy face buried into my neck, with teeth like razors, tearing, and he had me pinned fast. I couldn't even begin to comprehend... _God, why was he doing this?_

I couldn't see anything of where I was or understand- there was only sickening pain and fear. I felt wet, warm blood seeping from the ripped flesh, and, terrified, I realized some of it was flowing into the man at my throat. I wanted to scream, but couldn't. I was too weak, the vision too paralyzingly bizarre, and the pressure on my throat was choking me. I couldn't do anything more than convulse.

Suddenly the pressure was gone. Carlisle Cullen snapped up as though electrocuted, his face a contorted mask of violence and agony. I looked on in mute terror as he sucked in a hissing breath, his dark gold eyes still fastened on me as they morphed into black, depthless voids.

Everything I knew about anything fell away and had me falling with only one stark certainty: my dream of death was over. I'd been cast down to hell, and a demon had taken the form of Dr. Cullen to welcome me into its depths.

I shut my eyes against the monstrous sight, clutched at the wound at my throat and twisted away with a feeble cry, pathetically attempting to escape the horror of what was happening to me.

I felt glacial hands on my face and wounds. "I'm so sorry for the pain, Edward! Listen to me! It won't last, I promise it won't last."

I tried to writhe away. "Leave me alone! Please just leave me alone!"

But the creature was telling the truth. The pain wasn't lasting; it was _changing_, and the dreadful new sensations only confirmed where I was. A searing burn raked my throat, so terrible that it made me wish for the relief of being ravaged by mere bronchitis again. It felt like the wound was being cauterized with a white-hot iron, and as it sizzled through the torn flesh, the flames crept further in like an infection in my blood. I could hear and feel each heartbeat pumping the molten flames deeper into my body; first my neck and shoulder kindled from within, and then it seeped into my back, lungs. As it snaked into my limbs and torso, its excruciating course ripped through like glowing-hot barbed wire was being slowly pushed through my veins.

I tried opening my eyes, but was met with utter darkness, like the world was vanished into oblivion. There was nothing but a black ocean of torment. I thrashed and twisted in it; I crawled, but felt no surface that wasn't on fire.

_What have I done?_ my mind screamed. _Oh, God, what did I do? Whatever it is tell me and I'll make it right, I swear! Please, God!_

"You're not dead, Edward," came the demon's familiar, urgent voice. I couldn't feel its hands, but felt its pull, holding me down in the furnace. "No, you're not dying. You're changing. You haven't done anything wrong. You could never... the burning will end, I swear. Endure it, endure it... you _will_ wake."

I hadn't realized I was screaming the pleas aloud, and didn't care. I didn't care about anything but ending the agony, and yet, to my utter despair and horror, I knew there would be no end. I couldn't even die to end it, because I was already dead. This was my eternity.

"It's alright, Edward. Let it go. When it was my time I couldn't afford to cry out, but there's no one else here now. Scream if it helps."

"Get away from me!"

Those were the last words I could form. I heard the voice again for only a few moments, reassuring me with its lies, before it died away along with everything else outside of me, silenced by pain. All I could hear was my heart thrumming in panic and terror, my blood racing within, futilely trying to outrace the flames.

Their relentless path started churning violently, forging ahead like pyroclastic flows searing everything in their wake, incinerating flesh and bone. By the time my whole body was consumed, the flame was beginning to burn into itself, feeding on its own fuel. Just when I thought it could get no worse, the wildfire doubled and rippled out from within, tearing through every sinew and nerve ending until I was no longer the victim of the fire, but its source. If I was screaming, I was no doubt breathing fire itself. There was nothing but the inferno, and all I could do was writhe.

The rhythmic pounding of my heart- that last, dying link to my soul- was slowly joined by a new, alien sound within... something felt more than heard. It seemed like a tremor in my mind, gradually coalescing into a sort of pleasant ringing, like the liquid frequency you get from wetting your fingertip and running it around the rim of a crystal wine glass. It was barely there at first, just a whisper in my mind, buried beneath flames. Its soothing tone held the promise of an eye in the storm. Mesmerized, I homed in on it, caring only that it was something apart from the burning. Maybe I couldn't stop the pain... but maybe I could disassociate from it if I concentrated on being aware only of this balm of a sound. I worked on disentangling my consciousness, if it could still be called that, from aspects of my being to immerse myself into that peaceful space, a pool of sonorous calm, even if it meant I'd have to hide inside it for eternity.

It took a long time, or at least it felt that way. Hours, days, weeks... I couldn't tell, nor did I care, because each moment that passed was an eternity. Bit by bit, nerve ending by nerve ending, I pushed all the facets of pain away in favor of this one chance at relative peace.

And then the real torture began.

I was almost completely there; a black abyss of nothingness save for that dulcet ringing. For the briefest moment, I again thought the torment had done its worst. I could stay where I was, lulled by that sound... but then it started to change, to intensify. The ringing turned sharp, its pitch rising... I waited for it to stop, kept thinking it couldn't get any higher, but it kept going and going, turning into a terrible, spectral shriek, concentrating into so high a pitch that I couldn't have heard my own screams above it. And then, as if I'd broken a dam by breaching this once-calm place, the flames flooded in. The mind-splitting sound shattered into a thousand shards of glass, scraping against the inside of my skull like fiery, diamond-tipped daggers on a chalkboard, and there was no escape.

I was shackled by that agony for I don't know how long. The pain was indescribable... my very sanity was disintegrating. Consciousness of anything at all was seared away by fire, scraped away by blades.

Time vanished. There was no time... no place, nothing. There was nothing to be done except exist as an entity of pain.

After who knows how long, I became aware of the ringing starting to return, starting out softly, as it had before; it could only be the harbinger of some fresh torment, but there was no way to muster fear or dread, and no point to it. I was beyond that. The new torture was just an inevitable thing coming, and I could only listen as it grew stronger...

But there was something different this time. Under the ringing was the thunder of my slow, rhythmic heartbeat, and with every pulse there was a glimmer of light, a soft glow in my consciousness. Every beat was stronger, every pulse a little brighter... and as it grew, the bone-scraping shrieks in my skull started to dissipate, flames in their wake. One scratching blade after another disappeared, melting into the fire. The ringing turned into a steady, clear tone as the pulse and the light seemed to meld with it. They all flared together into a brilliance... and then they were gone.

A gentle, ghostly voice was in their place. It was at that moment that awareness of any kind really started to come back... a _voice_. It was familiar somehow, and it was praying... Latin? _I know Latin, don't I?_

_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,  
parce nobis, Domine.  
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,  
exaudi nos, Domine.  
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,  
miserere nobis._

It stopped.

Silence in the flames.

The pain came back full force, and I started writhing, desperate for that voice again. _Please, please come back!_

And then, mercifully, it did, but not in prayer- at least, not formal prayer.

_Please let this be over soon. Dear God, guide me. Tell me what to do... he's going to hate me... how do I do this?_

Suddenly I could feel my heart again, racing much faster than should have been possible, like a flutter in my chest. The fire remained, but without the torture in my head, I could muster some small, pathetic measure of thought.

It occurred to me- all this time, since the dream under the stars- most of the pain had felt corporeal. And if that were true, then maybe I was still in my body. I began to wonder if I was still alive. Could I still be in the _process_ of dying?

The voice was still there. No, not there; _here. _Somebody was here.

_It was all I could do to keep him from tearing his own hair out... there must be a better way than this. Perhaps the venom would work more quickly if it's introduced at multiple pressure points..._

Was it him? The doctor? Is that why it was familiar? I remembered him- that demon at my throat- _venom?_ What _was_ he, the serpent itself? And if he was, and if my heart stopped beating and I died, was he going to take me to hell? Hadn't I just been there? If that wasn't hell...

The mere thought of going someplace worse than where I'd just started to crawl out of sent me into the blackest grief I'd ever known. I felt air heave from my ashen lungs, and then, to my shock, I heard something outside myself. I was crying.

"Edward?"

Hands on me. A hand on my face. It was shuddering- no, that was me shuddering. Something was very different. The voice that spoke was familiar, but still unrecognizable. The hands on my skin felt like no other touch I'd experienced... what was that on my back? Linen?

My heart was still going too fast, but now it was pounding, battering my ribs like a caged bird with cats swiping at it from all directions. The flames were surging into it, draining from the rest of me, and my senses were returning.

_Thank you, God!_ came a whisper, and following it, the voice it belonged to. "It's almost over, Edward. As soon as your heart stops, you'll be awake. It's alright. You _won't_ die. Don't be afraid of it."

"No!" I screamed, and my eyes flew open in panic. I didn't want my heart to stop! It kept thrumming, and I could see again... and it wasn't what I expected. Even after everything I'd been through, I could still be shocked, even while simultaneously in panic and fiery torment. It was almost as if, while blinded by the pain, I'd _forgotten_ what it was like to see, to hear... and even to smell. I convulsed in silence, wide-eyed and unblinking, riveted.

Everything was so vivid! Dr. Cullen was right there above me. It _was_ his hands I'd been feeling, holding me down while I twisted on a metal-framed bed, and from the feel of it under me, the creaking of its frame and the floorboards under my thrashing, I could tell it was bolted down. The only thing I was wearing was a pair of cotton pajama pants, so jarringly mundane in the midst of all the terror, but every thread and tuft of the material was so sharply tangible, so different in sensation from the sheets on my back.

I felt the air all around me, the caress of it, neither warm nor cold. The room was windowless and completely unfamiliar, bare save the bed I was on. But there were marks on the floor... so clear, the indentations and shadows where furniture and rugs had been just a short while ago. I could smell the residuals of leather, paper and wood polish.

But the burning within was still there, still consuming, concentrating itself into the center deep within, pouring into my heart. That room may as well have been hell, but somehow I realized that it wasn't. It was earthly... and the doctor...

It _was _Cullen, wasn't it? His face had so much more dimension and color than I remembered, and he still didn't look like himself. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were as black as the sweater he wore. He even smelled different- like something from Christmastime. But at least he was there.

"Help me," I cried to him. "Please help me!"

Cullen's face crumpled in grief when I looked into his eyes- and suddenly I was seized by memory, or a dream- I couldn't tell which- and saw myself in a hospital...

_I was eased down to pillows after swallowing a drink of water. My green eyes, glittering with fever, gazed up gratefully- _

And then the image abruptly changed. It was still me, but I was-

_...shaking, lying on another bed, pale white, but not with the flu. My face was harder, luminescent, as if sculpted from white quartz crystal, and my eyes were a demonic blood-red, furious and terrible. _

My teeth clenched as I convulsed with my raging heart- I hissed at the vision, _and it hissed back_.

The image faded instantly when my body contorted in a violent, spine-curling seizure- my heart gave one last frantic leap, then fell silent.

I collapsed with a long, rattling sigh and lay as still as stone.

I might have ceased to exist. There was nothing.

But then my eyes opened again.

_This is it... the moment of death_, I thought. The burning was gone. I waited in vain for consciousness to dissipate. But it didn't. I remained in that strange room.

And then that murmur again.

_Careful. Be so, so careful. Whatever happens, keep him until he's fed._

My gaze wandered from the hickory-planked ceiling, and I saw him. Cullen was no longer holding me down, and he hadn't spoken. He stood several feet away, watching me, it seemed, apprehensively. Was he really _glowing_? That's what it seemed like.

"You're awake now, Edward," he said solemnly. "It's done."

_What's done? _I wanted to ask. _What's happened? Am I alive or dead? _

I looked away from him, instantly calculating the dimensions of the room I was in, at the same time taking stock of my physical being. I was whole, uninjured. _How did I get here? The doctor... _what had happened to me was something he did, wasn't it? That was no dream. He really had torn at my throat, and it had _done_ something to me. What the hell _was_ he?

And I couldn't be dead. Not that I knew what death felt like (or did I?), but it couldn't be _this. _I'd never felt so purely physical. Every nerve ending was unquestionably alive. _Everything_, from the linen on my back to the air in my lungs, was absorbingly wonderful. Had it always felt like this before I got sick? _Wasn't I sick? Yes, I think I was, once..._ There was a tremendous river of energy inside, and pain was a thing of the past... or so it seemed, until I noticed a burn... tickling.

As awareness of it crept up on me, palpable, growing... a new heat raking my throat, turning into a trail of fire that blazed, aching in my gut, it wasn't despair that took told, but _rage. God damn it! When is it going to end? From one inferno to another! Not again!_

But unlike the flames that had consumed me before, this pain wasn't incapacitating. If anything, it was _compelling, _like hunger and lust wrapped up in one, but expontentially more powerful than either sensation; while my entire body thrummed to its call, the hunger behind it was centralized, burning inside. Instinct screamed at me that I could _do_ something about it. It could be quenched. It would be _sated. _

I would deal with the doctor later. There was a living elixir I had to find- it was the _only _thing that mattered. I thought about getting up, about moving to seek it- my whole body responded.

There was a shout- _stop him!_ -and the next thing I knew, Cullen had me pinned fast to the floor on the other side of the room. I struggled, at the same time trying to figure out where the shout had come from. Not from him, not from me, but there was no one else around... and then the voice spoke again, and I paused, listening.

_He's too far gone to listen to reason. Scare him. Be forceful._

I couldn't tell where it was coming from and decided I didn't care. There was no time for figuring it out right now. I had to get out! That sounded like decent advice the voice was offering, though, and I didn't have to be told twice. I thrashed and growled viciously underneath Cullen's iron grasp. His gaze seared into me, set into an expression of ferocity- so bizarre to see on a face I associated with wisdom and kindness, though I couldn't quite remember why...

"Stop!" he snarled.

I didn't. He was startling, but not anything like as compelling as this fiery need inside me. I screamed at him.

"Let me up!"

He didn't, but a good shove threw him off easily enough, and I was up. I already knew the room; there were two doors, one on the west side, at the top of a wooden staircase, and on the east, another- and the clean scent beyond the eastern door was what I sought... outside... it went _outdoors_... _yes!_ Once I was out there I would know where to go.

I scrambled for it, but my foot was caught in a steely grasp, and I grunted as the doctor's other arm wrapped around my waist and he threw his weight down, tackling me to the floor. Boards cracked and splintered beneath us, but I twisted up and braced against him with my legs. With a shove he was off, crashing against the north wall, and with a triumphant hiss I was up again, amazed by my own strength. _I must've had it in me all along!_

I didn't dwell on it, though. No sooner was I up than I made for the door- _but Cullen was right there in front of me, _growling, ready to grapple. God damn it! He was _fast. _

I heard that pest of a voice again, and this time it sounded like it was coming from _within_ me.

_Damn it, they're so strong... but he's wild, he's not thinking. He doesn't know what he's capable of yet. I can still do this..._

I howled in rage, clutching my hands in my hair, trying to stop the words. The burning and torture, this thirst, and now another voice in my head- it was maddening, beyond comprehension, and it was still there...

_Oh, no... is there something wrong with him?_

I shook it off and glared at Cullen, readying my next move. The bastard had a lot to answer for, and after I'd found what I needed, I was coming back here to make him pay for what he'd done to me, no matter how intimidating he looked with that midnight gaze.

Right now there were more important matters, like getting past him and out of the damned room. But I couldn't _concentrate_. I took a moment to close my eyes, trying to silence the voice. It still didn't shut up, but taking that moment to focus helped enough that it at least faded into a murmur.

Meanwhile, Cullen was calming down. Hardly half a second had passed when I opened my eyes again, but already his posture was different... no longer aggressive. His hands were in front of him, though, as if ready to grab me, or defend himself.

"Edward, listen to me," he said evenly. "I know what you're feeling right now; the burn inside, I know what it is. I can help you."

"I don't want any more of your _help_, you son of a bitch!"

I tore off towards the western door. Ignoring the stairs, I leapt for the landing at the top, amazed that it worked. I could jump so high, so easily, like it was just taking another step... but a hand caught my ankle again and I was yanked back before the jump was complete. I grasped the rail on the way down, which only tore away in my hands.

Howling in frustration, I landed on my feet amidst falling wreckage of railing, ready to spring at him, only to be tackled from behind and land face down- more broken flooring. But with a reflexive shove of my arms, we were hurdled up and back. Cullen was still clutching me when his back plowed against the wall; thick paneling and concrete was pulverized, earth pouring in around us before choking the opening... _we were in a basement?_ The whole wall groaned under the changes of pressure, and for a moment I thought it might collapse, but it didn't. It held, and the creaking slowly stopped as Cullen tightened his hold on me, the earth settling around us.

_Why isn't this working?_ I wondered in raw frustration. I could feel him behind me, and he wasn't injured at all. Not out of breath. Not even flustered. Neither was I, for that matter. Both of us should've been bloodied and broken, but it was as if we were made of some indestructible material, and immune to exhaustion. And yet I could easily tell...

"I'm stronger than you," I hissed.

I felt his chest vibrate against my back in a chuckle.

"But I'm smarter."

With a snarl of rage, I twisted, breaking free, forgetting the fight. We'd see how smart he felt when I got back. I was out of his grasp, once again heading for that door that led outside. The scent of the night air beckoned, the freedom!

I was tackled again, thwarted, and so it continued... I could throw off his grasp but he'd have it locked on me again in the same instant. I could writhe free and start to rise only to be recaptured. Neither of us tired or got hurt... it came down to sheer stubbornness, and he kept telling me, kept trying to _talk_...

"I can help you... just please be still... listen..."

"Get off me!"

And then he said, "Stop! Edward, _if you value life_, you have to _stop!"_

His voice was so nakedly desperate that it gave me pause, and the words themselves- what the hell did he mean, "if you value life?" Of course I valued life! Why did he think I hadn't torn him apart yet? Because I could have, damn it! The only thing stopping me was that, somehow, I wasn't _absolutely _sure I needed to. All I really wanted right then was to just leave!

He took advantage of my momentary stillness to strengthen his most recent grip, pinning me beneath him, face-to-face. And although I wasn't physically tired in the least, a sort of mental exhaustion was setting in. The burn in my throat was screaming for satiation, my gut twisting, draining away mental capacity for much else, even this fight. My disgust with Cullen was collapsing, starting to give in to the spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he really could help stop the hungering pain inside, which didn't make any sense in light of the torture he'd inflicted upon me so far.

"I know what you need," he was muttering. "I know how to get it, and I'll help you. But if you want that help you have to stop fighting me _right now_."

God damn it! I believed him. I hated him, too- loathed the very _idea _of him. Somewhere, buried under the screeching thirst, I knew he was responsible for every torment I'd encountered since... since...? _The hospital? Yes, I'd been in a hospital. The flu. Why did I have trouble remembering that just now?_

Panic set in and I twisted in Cullen's grasp before reminding myself to try to be still again. He could only be a thing from hell, but, demon incarnate that he may be, he was all I had. I screamed with the effort to quell the fight, to swallow the feral energy that wanted to consume everything in its path. And then the voice came to the forefront of my mind again... sorrowful.

_Oh, Edward. What have I done to you?_

I cried out. Not that again!

Simultaneously, I was flooded with more dream-like, unbidden images of myself, and I stilled as they coursed through my brain. This time I was racing into the night, away from this place and from Cullen... and then I was standing over pale corpses. The thirst inside pulsed as if fueled by that image, beckoning me to make it reality.

_"If you value life..."_ he'd said_._

The glimpse of myself in that vision... something inside... suddenly I knew what this infernal thirst inside me meant: _death._ Violent, bloody _death._ A new panic grew, my mind rebelling against the thirst and the visions. I clung to Cullen's words as desperately as I would to a branch draped over a pit of quicksand about to swallow me whole. I was on the verge of sinking into murderous oblivion.

"Help me!" I hissed, my body writhing anew. I stopped fighting him as best I could, but couldn't stop twisting with the need to get out, to find the spring that flowed with what my body craved. But I discovered that I could, at least, refrain from putting any real strength into my movement.

"I _will_," he said emphatically, holding down my limbs. "But you have to learn _control_. The fire, the thirst- I know what you're feeling. Think beyond it, just for a few moments. Reach beyond it. I know you can do it, Edward. _Think!_ Your mind is strong."

I clenched my eyes shut, shouting wordlessly in frustration. None of it made any sense.

"Stop breathing for a moment," he ordered soothingly. "You don't need the air. Just do that at first. Don't breathe."

I was willing to try anything at that point- just to get him off me, just to get the help he kept promising. I stopped gulping, stopped breathing, and with that came the pause in movement. My body stilled, and I just stared up at him, waiting.

I waited for the lack of oxygen to start strangling me... waited for the panic to commence. But it didn't. I was still as stone, looking into those cooling, obsidian eyes, beginning to feel the truth in them. The longer I waited, the more comfortable I was. _My God._ _I don't need to breathe._ And then came the foreign whisper again.

_There he is. This is going to be alright._

I ignored it, amazed by what I was feeling. Without air to feed on, the burn turned down a few notches; my attention wandered... how spectacular everything looked! The grain of the wood on the floor, shattered as it was... amazing stuff. In the huge pile of earth that had poured in were shards of quartz, and I could discern every glinting, multi-dimensional grain of it. A pile of dirt- and it was _beautiful_.

And there was the myriad hues of color in the small licks of flame pulsating in a corner fireplace... _a __fireplace in a basement_...? _No... there was a furnace there, but it's been converted into a fireplace... why? Never mind... _

I'd never noticed what a complex structure fire was... the hundreds of layers of color and graduating degrees of heat, mixing, swirling. And the sounds... wait, was that the wind? No. Just a breeze... but not even really a breeze. Just air barely moving... whispering against the house that sat over this basement. Beyond the wood and concrete I could hear, and even _feel_, minuscule shifts of settling earth, the result of ground beginning to freeze underneath winter's grip.

Cullen- whatever he was- spoke again, and it was like hearing his voice for the first time. It was still his voice, but now deeper and softer, as if emanating from a well, and yet clearer and more immediate than ever.

"Edward, I'm going to let go now. And you won't move. Don't breathe- remember? Edward, nod if you understand that."

I did. And then he let go, still crouched, ready to pounce at any sudden movement I might make, keeping my gaze chained to his.

"What you need is outside," he said. "Nearby there's plenty of it, and I'll take you there. So you're going to follow me. But you _will not_ breathe until I say. Do you understand me?"

_Yes!_ I nodded frantically. _Just for pity's sake, help!_ I wanted to cry out. The flames were starting to overcome the handicap created by the lack of oxygen.

Cullen stood, reaching out his hand. "It's time to hunt."

* * *

Here is the translation of the Latin prayer:

Lamb of God, who take away the sins of the world,  
_have mercy on us, O Lord.  
_Lamb of God, who take away the sins of the world,  
_have mercy on us, O Lord.  
_Lamb of God, who take away the sins of the world,  
_hear our prayer._


	6. The Fire Soul

Chapter 5 - The Fire Soul

_I sat by my fire in the night, in the night,  
The darkness grew deeper around me,  
The last faint gleams of the flickering light  
Faded out of my sight, into night, into night,  
And the spell of revery bound me._

When sudden I saw in the vanishing light  
A phantom hovering o'er me;  
It wavered an instant in its flight;-  
Then faded from sight, into night, into night,  
And left but the darkness before me.

And yet so swift and sudden its flight,  
So deep the shadows before me,  
I knew not whether a beckoning sprite  
Had glimmered white, in the night, in the night,  
Or only a thought sped o'er me.

- The Fire Soul by George Charles Selden

* * *

**He told** me not to breathe, and I didn't- not until we were in a snowy thicket a hundred miles away.

Still clad in nothing but those pajama pants, I followed Cullen through the eastern door I'd been fighting to reach in the first place. It opened to concrete stairs that went up into a clear November night, and I braced myself for cold... but it didn't bother me as it should have. The frozen air simply _was_, and its temperature affected me no more than the lack of it in my lungs. As we stepped up frigid concrete that felt perfectly comfortable under my bare feet, I wondered if I existed in the same dimension as the world I was walking through, it affected me so little.

Maybe I was a ghost.

And then I looked up.

_Impossible. _

There couldn't be so many stars. Cascades of them, fountains, explosions of them. No longer just silvery white, but many tinted with color. Even immediately around the brilliant, full moon, which always drowned out any starlight in its vicinity, there were thousands of them. The constellations I knew were gone, buried underneath a dozen layers of new ones. The moon itself was brighter than I remembered it being, the ridges and craters and shadows of its topography as defined as if I was looking at it through a telescope.

And then we reached the top of the stairs, where I stayed as Cullen wandered a few more steps, sniffing at the air, scanning the woods that lay beyond the clearing around this house, which was seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I looked at the stars for a little longer, stuck on one point of reddish light that I thought must be one of the planets- it seemed to have a disc around it- and then I realized... _Saturn's rings._

Fifteen steps on that staircase, and I had journeyed into another view of the universe. Part of me wanted to stay rooted to that spot and stare endlessly at the night sky in all its beauty.

It was a very small part, though. The rest of me found it easy to rip my furious gaze from the sky to Cullen's back, thinking to run away from him and this place, driven only by the fiery teeth gnashing in my gut, the flame in my throat, the lust and craving. I could trust in my own instinct to find what I needed... all it would take is getting the scent of my surroundings, as he was doing.

_Go now, _the animal inside said_,_ hatred rising. _You owe him nothing, least of all obedience. You can find it on your own._

I clenched my teeth, choking my throat off tighter, resisting. I still couldn't understand what it was I'd gleaned earlier from that vision of myself standing over corpses, except that I was the cause of all that death, and it would actually happen if I listened to the near-overwhelming instinct screaming at me in mind and body.

It was only because the doctor didn't take long- only a moment- to sniff the air before speaking, that the instinct didn't win the argument. A feral look hardened his features as he spoke, still looking out at the land.

"We run south first," he said tightly. "Stay behind me, and don't breathe."

Irritated by repetition of the command, I couldn't help the growl that curled up into my throat in place of the hissing insults I wanted to hurl at him, which would have required breath. But my growl trailed off into shocked silence as Cullen launched into a run that defied belief. It was as if he'd been snapped from a slingshot, impossibly _fast, _his body a precision machine, inhuman, and he was disappearing into the woods by the time I realized what I was seeing was real. For a split second I wanted to shout at him to wait! I wouldn't be able to keep up. Instead, I started to move after him, my goal to at least try keeping him in sight, to just go as fast as I could.

What. Was. _This?_

If it wasn't for my promise to refrain from breathing, I would've shouted in exhilaration.

This was _incredible_. My legs, my_ whole body_, was a sheer pleasure to feel working, limber and light and fast. I didn't think movement could be so fluid and effortless. I didn't even have to think about it. My body just _moved, _responding flawlessly to my slightest will.

I closed in on Cullen with incredible speed, and had to slow down not overtake him. I kept just behind him, amazed by what I was experiencing. We were running so fast, and yet my mind was easily fifty paces ahead of us, mapping out terrain, calculating the depth of snow and the height of small rises with easy precision. We sped through copses of birch and pine at what must have been tremendous velocity, and yet not a single needle or papery shred of bark was blurred to me. Even the dimness of peripheral vision was a thing of the past. Just as I'd discovered in the basement with my new sight, there was so much to the world, to even the simplest objects...

Had it always been like this? How could it all feel like such a new discovery when I couldn't remember things being any other way?

But somehow, echoes inside told me this shouldn't be possible. I'd _felt _it when we left the basement, and when I saw Cullen run. I should be freezing, on the verge of death, plodding through the deep drifts and fighting for every mile. But I wasn't.

Our feet were feather-light atop the snow as we whipped underneath stars that shone like a million nails in the winter night; the sparkling, icy forest was our own vast amphitheater. It felt like such a landscape should've been lifeless and silent, but I heard tiny creatures in the earth, far beneath my feet, and the minuscule creaking of branches heavy with snow, the low-pitched whistle of the air as we sliced through it.

The voice was still with me, but not as much as in the basement, and when I _did_ hear it, it was harder to tell apart from my own, as if it was caught up in what was happening, too.

_This way... that ridge looks good... no... no... not there! Up..._ _no, not that, disgusting, he'll never run for it... here... ah, good..._

Something in me wanted to go faster as we approached a set of hills, to gather speed in anticipation of the incline, but it was an unfounded urge. There was no exertion involved in running and leaping up the steepest inclines; no velocity was lost. I almost stopped when I saw Cullen jump for a sheer cliff face, but he didn't fall. He'd scrambled up and disappeared over the top of the cliff before the thought was complete in my mind. I leapt after him, quickly discovering that all I needed was the shallowest ripple in the rock for my fingernails to dig into, and I didn't even need that. My fingers and toes could curl into the stone, crumbling it away and creating their own holding place, and I hurdled up the cliff with just one pull, and we were running again.

As we crested a jagged, rocky hilltop, the wind swept up the powdery snow into drifts, and yet again I braced myself for bitter stinging. But I needed no coat or collar to shield my skin from the snow; those drifts were soft, starlit curtains of glitter that caressed me, and the feel of ice and rock beneath my feet was a sensuous prickling.

We started through a different forest now, and the urge to breathe, to take in the scent of the air around me, was nearly irresistible... but with that urge came its partner, exponentially stronger: the drive to sate my thirst. I was absolutely desiccated inside.

It all came down to Cullen. I wanted only what he promised. I kept reminding myself through the fire inside that _that_ was why I was here, following him, denying myself the freedom to breathe, and even to run as fast as I sensed I could. I knew that all it would take was a slight quickening of my pace, and I would be beyond him, free.

But I followed, appreciation for my speed and agility diminishing, my surroundings noted rather than experienced. My insides were consumed by aching flames, my vision beginning to tint with red again... my teeth clenched, baring as I fought with everything I had not to breathe...

I needed to _know_ where to go, and my sense of smell was crucial to that. I _needed _nourishment.

One breath... just one...

I tightened my throat, strangled, burning...

I glued my eyes to the doctor's back, his shoulders working in perfect stride, and started to loathe every step he was making me endure, when I_ knew_ my own senses would take me to what I needed.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, that I could no longer bear to follow him and do it his way, he stopped in that thicket. Freezing, crouched into stillness, a low growl rumbled within his chest, and the voice echoed again in my mind, low and determined.

_Here. It's now or never. _

I heard heavy, meandering footsteps in the distance... and wet, thumping heartbeats.

Cullen looked over his shoulder at me with wild, inky black eyes. "Now breathe."

I closed my eyes and drank in the air like it was life itself, a myriad of scents from sap to rock to snow flooding me. And the scent coming from those heartbeats... this must be what he wanted me to smell... musky, rich... but I hesitated. Something was off about this odor. It wasn't quite right. We could do better than this, I knew. This _wasn't_ it.

My perplexed gaze flickered at Cullen, who blinked once, then looked off in the direction of the sounds and scent, taking another deep breath.

"It's what you need, Edward. Make the kill."

_Kill. _The thirst inside flared anew at the word, the fire licking at every point inside me, stronger than ever since I'd awakened, and I was enslaved. _Yes!_

I lit through the woods and then burst out across a white prairie, heedless of my unnatural speed, racing towards that scent, seeking its gushing heartbeat, dedicated to it and nothing else until I crashed unthinkingly into its warm body, sweeping it to the ground and burying my face into its throat. My teeth sank through fur and muscle like it was no more substantial than warm bread, rupturing a large, pulsing vein- and there I fastened, my whole body paralyzed by the first gush. I drank deep and quick; hot, liquid velvet on my tongue, pouring into me, filling my hollow self until there was a burst, a life extinguished into me, and I needed more. And there was more to be had.

All I had to do was spin and reach. I snapped a thick neck with my grasp, crunched into it with my teeth. A struggling hoof scraped against my legs, tearing the cotton fabric but sliding off my skin as though I were made of granite. I ripped the quivering leg free of the torso and threw it aside. I purred, drinking more, more, more, then leapt on the next fleeing victim in half an instant. My body sang in ecstasy at the violence, even though nagging at me that this wasn't the right victim.

And somewhere in the midst of the feast, rational thought started to return. The fire was dying, leaving room for wonderment.

What the hell _was_ I? These beasts, white-tailed deer, had fallen victim to me before their pitiful bleats had time to leave their throats. Their blood was a balm to my thirst, and yet hadn't really slaked it. How had I caught them so easily, let alone drained them in a matter of ten seconds?

It was the fifth kill that I paused over, the thrill giving way to what I saw. My chest, arms and thighs were soaked with blood that steamed in the air, on my skin. I could feel it wet on my face, cooling so fast, the scent fading into something foul. Shredded fur and carcasses expanded from me over a half mile of blood-spattered, snowy ground. The thirst still tickled, but was, thank God, mostly dulled. With all I had drunk, my insides felt nearly bloated, lukewarm and slightly tingling. And at last there was plenty of room in my mind for questions... and growing dread of the answers.

Several hundred yards away, Dr. Cullen stood over two of his own kills, having fed as I had, though obviously on less. Also, unlike me, there was no trace of violence. The pair of bodies were in a tidy heap, and there wasn't a drop of blood spilled anywhere around him or on his person. His gaze was on me, and I could see his eyes changing from black to the gold I once knew them to be, and yet... _not_. It no longer seemed a solid shade of color, but liquid, living.

He approached me, surveying the carnage, and in the silence, that voice inside broke through again.

_What a vicious mess._

"You did well, Edward," Cullen said, reaching where I stood in only two seconds. "Do you feel better now?"

Glutted was more like it, but I didn't answer except to nod slightly. Hate for him was growing again- the bitter hatred that had started to well up just a short while before, in that room where I'd burnt to ashes and then risen like some diseased phoenix. He was responsible for this, for making me this _thing_.

"Do you want any more?"

Again, my reply was silent, this time a single shake, _no, _as I realized the air he was exhaling didn't fog up as it should have.

"What _are_ you?" I had to hide my surprise at the smoothness of my own voice. I recognized it- it still sounded something like mine- but the timbre was deeper, richer, flowing over my throat like a caress... and my breath didn't fog, either.

"I'm what you knew me as before, Edward," he replied solemnly. "I'm still a doctor, still a man. But I haven't been a _human being_ for many generations, not since I went through the same thing that you just did. You're like I am now."

"So then what _am_ _I_!"

"What's more important is _who_ you are. You're still Edward Masen, and you must never forget that. You had a good life, so keep it close in your memory. As for _what_ you are..."

Cullen's gaze drifted away from me, sweeping slowly over the carnage I'd created. He murmured, almost as if to himself, "Living without it is agony, but even without the blood, we never die." He leveled his stare at me before speaking again. "They call us vampires."

I flinched in disbelief, searching for a hint of humor or melodrama in his voice, or trickery in his features, but there was none. Dear God, he was telling me the truth.

It couldn't be. I couldn't be a _vampire._ Vampires were fairytale monsters._ They didn't exist! _

And yet... there was nothing in _human _experience to explain any of this night; the death and fire that burned my veins, the shrieks in my skull, the fight with Cullen, the way he'd torn open my neck with his _teeth, _our unnatural speed and strength, the senses... and the _thirst_.

God, it made sense when I thought of it all together.

No.

NO!

I staved off panic by fighting to recall who I knew I should be. For the first time since awakening from that excruciating immolation, I tried to think back to my life before he bit me.

The memories were there, but so damned distant... they looked the like grainy, colorless images in a nickelodeon: my bedroom in my family's beautiful house in the Edgewater District, my father's strong face and all the baseball games we went to, his law firm where I'd spent two summers as an office boy, my years at the Latin School. These people and events in my memories... I knew what they should mean to me. I should've been tied up with all kinds of emotions, but I wasn't. I was a thing apart from my own past, somehow. I remained detached even when I remembered the flu and my father's funeral, the war, the hospital and my mother... _the_ _doctor._ Now _that _inspired a reaction.

The devil masquerading as a doctor, of all things. That explained why he preferred working nights, always arriving at the hospital after the sun went down, and then leaving before dawn. Always so strong, immune to fatigue and infection, strolling through our ward in St. Luke's with his unnatural grace, watching us all with those strange eyes. A _vampire._ An undead thing sending corpse after corpse to the morgue. _Oh, God..._

"How many others have you done this to?" I snarled.

"No one," he replied quietly, though his gaze nakedly begged for understanding. "In all these years, for all the time I've thought about it, I've never done this before. Edward, this is the first time, I promise you."

"But why? _Why me?"_

He merely frowned when I took fistfuls of his sweater to throw him to the ground. I only succeeded in wrenching him closer to me as the thick wool tore away in my hands, and before I could grab him again my preternatural sight caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror lenses of his eyes. It shocked me into stillness, hurling my memory back to something I'd seen during that hellish transformation I'd endured... when I'd seen a vision of myself with an unnaturally pale, sculpted face and flame-red eyes. Seeing my reflection now, I knew it was reality.

I was the same demon I'd seen in those last moments before my heart had been silenced, but so much worse. My mouth, jaw and neck were stained with blackening blood, like warpaint, and my expression was twisted in savagery, glaring with those scarlet eyes. And this time I knew it was no apparition, no death-induced delusion. I was monstrous.

And _plagued_. Still plagued by that damned voice inside! It was too unpredictable to be my conscience, and most disturbing, it didn't even sound like me. I had no cognizant link between my thoughts and the ones the voice imposed upon me. It never let up, and now it sounded anguished.

_Dear God, how can I tell him?_

And then abruptly the voice wasn't alone in my mind, and I was flooded with a vision of a woman in agony... my mother. It was the most vivid memory I'd yet had, and it was so overwhelming that my real surroundings faded transparently into the background, like I was seeing two worlds at once.

I instantly let go of the doctor and the shreds of his sweater, scrambling away, shutting my eyes and freezing into stillness to ward off what I was seeing, but she was still there.

_So frail, thin and pale. She gazed up beseechingly from her bed at St. Luke's; her moss-green eyes - the same color mine had been - were sunken, but glinting with fierce determination._

"Save him," she rasped, "You must save my son."

"I'll do everything in my power," came the answer.

It was the doctor who'd answered her, and I realized I was witnessing her last moments. Unbidden, the visions flooded in, and I found myself captive, at the same time struggling to discern if it was all imagination or memory... hadn't I been unconscious when she died? Why couldn't I see the doctor if he was there in the memory? I could hear him. But... wait, I_ could_ see him, in a way. I saw his arm in his white lab coat, his hand in a glove, resting next to her as he leaned over her bed... it was as if I was seeing the whole thing from his perspective- not just through his eyes, but in his mind as well. How could that be?

_Her hand slid over Cullen's arm, curling into a white-knuckled death grip as she swallowed hard, fighting for breath to speak her piece. "You must... you must do everything in_ your _power. What others cannot do, _you _must do for my Edward."_

_Cullen's breathing stopped. She _kne_w about him. Somehow, as the veil between life and death pulled back for her, Elizabeth Masen had seen something of what he really was... perhaps some glimpse of the immortal light... or maybe she'd just put together the many little odd things about him that set Cullen apart from the humans around him. Edward got his perceptiveness from his mother, that much was obvious. But how much did she know? Did she realize that the act of healing her son would also destroy him in so many ways? That Edward would endure an entirely different kind of death?_

_Cullen wasn't even entirely sure he had the strength to do what she was asking.  
_

_Her weakening gaze begged._

_"I know you can. Please, please save him." Her voice was barely there._

___He could only speculate in stunned silence as, only moments later, Elizabeth's grip slid away from his arm and her glare clouded with the shadow of fever. Life drifted slowly out of her eyes as her jaw slackened, and her faint heartbeat slowed even more than it already had... one last, soft thump...  
_

_And then stopped._

Even in death, Elizabeth Masen's face was agonized. There was no peace as long as her son was in still in danger.

Cullen's wondering gaze turned to the next bed over, where, unconscious and wheezing, young Edward Masen had few hours left. _What a waste it was, the vampire thought, watching this boy's fragile, mortal flesh decay with illness. __He had spent enough time in the boy's company to grow fond of the him. Edward was a quick-witted, talented young man, thoughtful, incredibly perceptive. The world was a better place with him in it. _

_Cullen had already been struggling for decades with the longing for just one companion who knew him, from whom he didn't have to hide. Aro's warnings had been all too accurate. The loneliness had long ago become unbearable._

_But how could he justify sentencing another creature to this existence, no matter how lonely he was? But, then... he'd learned how to make it at least somewhat worthwhile. It was, perhaps, within his capability to teach, to pass it on. Was that justification enough? _

_A mother's strangely insightful dying wish might be enough... Elizabeth Masen's pleading had sparked a hopeful contemplation. Was God giving him a chance? Was it possible that he wasn't meant to always be alone, after all?_  
_  
And the boy... he was strong of heart and mind, not quick to fall into temptation. Edward had the werewithal, if anyone did. _

_If he did it, if he committed this deed, how could he know that the boy would want to stay? He couldn't know... not unless he tried. The most he could do is pass on what he'd learned and hope the boy would find merit in it. He had to try. It might be enough. But if it wasn't... _

_The vampire couldn't do this thing only for himself. He would have to be at peace with the decision even if the boy chose not to stay with him. It had to be just to save Edward's life. That had to be enough._

Yes. It was enough.

His decision was quick. There wasn't enough time for it be anything but quick. He gently closed Elizabeth's eyes, whispering. "I will do all in my power. May God forgive me."

There the vision faded, leaving me on the frozen ground on all fours, clutching fistfuls of snow that no longer melted in my cold grasp. And that damned voice again.

_It was my choice. It's my burden. I must own it._

"I couldn't let you die, Edward," Cullen said quietly. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about the pain you went through. I'm sorry about the trials awaiting you in this life. But I'm not sorry for saving you."

Lingering images of my mother's face came through again, and my own body in Cullen's arms as he carried me away from St. Luke's.

I tried to purge the visions from my mind, but what was in front of me, in the here and now, was no better. I trembled in rage at the sight of the smooth, blood-soaked alien shell that was now my skin.

"She couldn't have known what it really meant," I whispered. "What she was truly asking of you."

"Edward?"

I snapped my gaze towards Cullen, glaring; the two of us crouched on frozen, bloody ground in a wind-swept sea of corpses. He regarded me with curiosity, his eyebrows furrowed.

_Can you hear what I'm thinking?_

I snorted. "What kind of question is that?"

The words all but escaped me, but before they could, I realized that his lips hadn't moved. His vocal cords hadn't even vibrated, and yet I'd heard him perfectly. The tone didn't even sound very different from his speaking voice.

I _could_ hear his thoughts, even see them. That explained... oh Jesus. How else could I have seen my mother's death as _he_ saw it, while I'd lain unconscious next to her? It hadbeen a memory- just_ not mine_. And I'd seen it in his mind as he revisited it, when I'd asked why he'd chosen to turn me into a...

_He_ was the voice.

I nodded, dumbfounded.

"You saw it, then? What I remembered about your mother? Or did you just hear words associated with it?"

"I saw," I whispered.

_Tell me what I'm thinking now._

"I... don't recognize it," I said hesitantly. The scene that shimmered to life in my mind wasn't part of my own memory, I didn't think. "The outside of some old church. There's a man's voice coming from inside; he's giving a sermon, maybe?"

His gaze widened in sheer astonishment. "You can see in that much detail, even though I'm not touching you?"

His question didn't make sense, but then nothing was making sense. For God's sake, I'd just discovered I could hear and see this creature's every thought. I stared in confusion, nodding slightly.

"Extraordinary," he murmured in amazement, his mind flickering back to what my mother had said to him, and his expression turned cautious. "I'm sorry, Edward. I didn't mean to tell you about your mother's last words until..." he drifted off, his brow furrowing.

_I just want to see something..._

He tentatively reached for me with one hand- my first instinct was to flinch away, but he persisted gradually, as if I was an irresistible flame. I hesitated out of simple curiosity.

His hand, cupping the side of my face, was no longer cold to me. It was as if he was trying to speak to me through touch. His gaze bent towards me intently, but he moved no closer.

_Open your mind, _he thought to himself.  
_  
What? _I thought, focusing in his direction. _Vampires are telepathic? But only if they're touching?_ I was nearly mad with curiosity, wondering if he could hear me as I could hear him. I knew the answer almost instantly.

_I can't hear his thoughts,_ he pondered. _Still just one way, and yet..._

"You're already more unique that you can possibly realize," he murmured.

Disgust welled up within me. Sheer and utter disgust. If I'd still been capable of human physical reactions, I would have crawled a few paces away and thrown up.

"_Unique_?" I threw his hand away from my face, seething. "Is that what you call it when you rip into the throat of a human being?"

Cullen didn't respond, but his eyes glazed over as if he was remembering something, and again, I saw it.

_My human face, deathly pale and clammy as I slept, shallow breaths bubbling out of my dying lungs, my neck open as he swept in for it, trying not to let the fear overwhelm him, fear of failing... of killing me... then blackness as he shut his eyes..._

"Up until a few nights ago, I honestly couldn't have told you about that particular experience," he finally murmured. "Yours was the first human blood I've tasted."

I almost asked why, how... if he was a vampire, why didn't he drink human blood? But I was interrupted by his own thoughts. He shrouded it as best he could, but the tiniest memory of the first achingly gorgeous taste ripped through his being, the ravenous desire to keep drinking from me until there was no more. Cullen shuddered, clenching his eyes tight as the recollection was forced out.

"Yes, Edward. It was... _unique_."

His resolve weakened for a moment, and the event tore through my sight again, but now he was...

_...trembling in ecstasy against my throat, warring with himself inside, fighting to open his jaw, to relax his bite... he swallowed only the blood that had poured in as he bit, clearing the way to flood his mouth with venom... but the urge to drink more... just a little more... _**the venom's in! Stop! Stop! Enough!** _He tightened his throat, forcing himself to keep from swallowing, and it ached horribly to do it. Everything in his vision was bathed in red, sounds and scents were sharper than they'd ever been for him, his body screamed for more... _

_Mustering the very last shreds of control he had, he detached his teeth and let his tongue sweep over the wound, sealing in the poison so it could begin the journey through my veins. The deed done, Cullen snapped up away from my throat, fighting to hold his breath, trying desperately to quell the frenzy of need inside him. It mingled with grief when he saw me convulsing in pain, feebly clutching my throat and gazing up at him in horror._

_For God's sake, stop. His gift... Edward? If you can see all of this, I'm so sorry..._

The vision mercifully faded, but I was still gripped by its effects when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I threw it off and turned on him with a fierce snarl. Cullen's frame steeled, rising, and his gaze warned me away... but he spoke calmly.

"I know you hate me, and I don't blame you. But this life, if that's what it is, doesn't have to be only a curse. Like everything, it's what you make of it, and you don't want to start out by fighting me, Edward. It won't turn out well._"  
_  
I knew he was right, but what was I supposed to do? How in the hell was I supposed to carry on as a God-damned vampire? Go lock myself up in a decrepit castle in the Balkans? Slither through city streets at night, looking for victims? Join a traveling carnival of freaks and do mind-reading tricks for a dime apiece?

Would I ever stand in the sun again?

Dozens of thoughts and emotions swept through me at the same time- bitter, funny, grieving. All led to despair and utter confusion.

The doctor just watched me, wondering what I was going to do, chiding himself for letting me see how he bit me, glad it hadn't sparked bloodlust in me, planning on how to outmaneuver me if I ran. It was amazing how streamlined his mental patterns were, and how many lines of thought he could keep going at one time, all the while now reminding himself that I heard all of it.

"We can't leave this place like this," he finally said. "It'll take quite some time for our scent to dissipate, and other animals won't come around until it has. Even then, it's likely people will pass through before animals can finish off the carcasses. The easiest thing would be to bury them."

"As if no one's going to notice a huge plot of upturned earth in the middle of a field like this?" I retorted.

"We could take them to water and weigh them down, turn over the bloody snow left behind here. Or dig a hole deep enough to pile them one on top of the other- a relatively small patch. None of the solutions are difficult, I assure you. But tonight we should be able to just bury them here, where they lay. Take another deep breath."

I indulged him, sensing what he meant as soon as I inhaled. This was something I remembered from my mortal life, too, but it was so much sharper and sweeter, and I'd never scented it from afar like this.

"Snowfall," I murmured. "Heavy snowfall, and a lot of it."

"Yes. It's only a few hours away."

It drew me back to the physical plane of existence - a task to accomplish, a problem to solve. But I use that word loosely. It wasn't _any_ problem.

All I had to do was slide my hand into the earth, my arm following with no resistance from frozen soil, rock, and dense networks of dormant grass roots. I could shape my hand underneath, feeling exactly how the dirt would give with a certain amount of pressure, and could determine how much force to exert to make it come up as clods, or crumble into icy dust. I could shove or pull away huge amounts of it in one sweeping motion, and do it so quickly that we were done in less than five minutes. After a few inches of the imminent snowfall piled up, there would be no trace of the violence that had occurred here. It would be a deceptively peaceful place.

When we were through, it seemed so futile.

"Why even bother?" I mumbled. "It's not as if people would have looked at the carcasses and assumed that vampires, of all things, were responsible."

People didn't believe in vampires. I hadn't.

_No, but they wouldn't be able to match up the remains with the feeding habits of any predator they know of, either, _Cullen replied in thought. _It's easy enough to clean up after ourselves, so there's no reason to make humans uneasy. Besides, the less reason they have to suppose that anything abnormal or supernatural is going on around them, the safer it is for us._

_Us._

As if we were some kind of unit. What was it groups of vampires were called in horror tales? Oh, yes. _Covens._ Is that really how he thought of us now?

Resentment welled up, and I really wanted to hate him, but I couldn't- at least not with genuine fervor. My freakish ability had seen to that. I couldn't hate someone whose motives were mostly benign, as much as I wanted to. How could I, after what I'd seen of my mother, and what she said to him? After knowing what it had taken for him to refrain from killing me?

Cullen was such an odd monster. There was nothing I could detect in his thoughts that could be construed as evil.

Except for what he'd done to me. He still wasn't convinced it had been the right thing to do, and it was a damn good thing he questioned his actions, because I sure as hell did.

Standing on that vast, snowy grave, soaked with blood and grime, I was nothing more than a hollow shell, my throat still petitioning to be quenched of a thirst that I knew would never completely die unless I killed human beings. No matter how detached I felt from my old, colorless human life that seemed so distant, the idea of killing its inhabitants wasn't exactly comforting.

I wished with all my heart that Cullen had left me alone to perish like I was supposed to. I wished with all my heart that I still _had_ a heart, instead of the shriveled lump that felt like a rock in my chest.

I stared at the doctor who stood beside me on that prairie, and in his mind I saw swirling images of faraway places and times, unfamiliar faces... how old were these images? Hold old was _he_? And why in the hell had he become a doctor, placing himself in constant exposure to the blood his body lusted after, while denying himself? What a bizarre pursuit for creatures like us.

_Us_. I'd just used the word myself. That's when the stark truth really came home. It really _was_ usnow. Us and them. The tether that attached me to humanity had been permanently severed... and I'd never realized how fragile it was to begin with.

As if he was able to read my thoughts after all, Cullen finally looked at me, breaking out of his reverie.

"I understand if you want to leave. I won't try to hold you back. But it _is_ possible to live decently like this, Edward. And there are things you have to know about our kind. All I ask is that you come back with me for the next few days before you make up your mind. Let me tell you what you'll need to know if you choose to set out on your own."

He gazed at me inscrutably for a moment, his thoughts a blank, and I wondered if the mental silence was deliberate.

"It's up to you," he said with a small smile.

Cullen pulled off the shredded remains of his sweater, balling it up in his hand, and walked away swiftly, breaking into a run... the way someone runs when they've decided to leave a place and need to get away before they change their mind.

He disappeared into the woods a mile away, and I listened intently as the whisper of his footfall grew distant, faint... until I couldn't hear it anymore. Gone with him was the voice that had so confused me at first. His _mind_. Oddly, its absence bothered me more than its presence, as if I'd unwittingly gotten used to it.

I stood as frozen as the landscape around me. By the feel of the air flowing across my skin, I could discern the shape of the terrain it had traversed before reaching me. I could smell every dormant tree and what it was waiting to unleash during springtime. I saw the feverish glow of Chicago illuminating the cloud cover to the north, which was overtaking the mesmerizing, starry sky... the snow within those clouds, so close to coming down on where I stood.

I knew exponentially more about my surroundings than my human senses had ever afforded, and yet I'd never felt more lost.

Yes, I could go.

Or...

I sped for the woods, panic rising. Where did he go? What if he was too far? Could I find my way back?

"Dr. Cullen!"

The glad reply came immediately, and I saw his silhouette appear in the distance for an instant, and then vanish again.

_Just follow my scent, Edward. And please call me Carlisle._


	7. The Night Shall Frown

Chapter 6 – The Night Shall Frown

_The night, though clear, shall frown,_

_And the stars shall not look down_

_From their high thrones in the Heaven_

_With light like hope to mortals given,_

_But their red orbs, without beam,_

_To thy weariness shall seem_

_As a burning and a fever_

_Which would cling to thee forever._

- from _Spirits of the Dead_ by Edgar Allen Poe

**Cullen had** asked me to stay on the porch before he went in the house ahead of me, promising to return quickly. Shock, having caught up with me on our run back to the house, held me still as I waited, wondering what kinds of bizarre things he could be preparing. I was at a complete loss as to imagine what could be waiting for me now. What other supernatural experiences would my first night as a vampire bring?

He was back almost before I could complete the question in my mind, bearing a pair of thick, wool socks.

"Here, you should put these on."

I eyed the socks suspiciously. "But my feet aren't cold."

"No, but they're wet with grime and blood, and my floors are clean. You need a bath."

Frowning, I snatched the socks from him and put them on while his mouth twitched in amusement.

The house wasn't big, but the front entrance opened up to a large room that extended to the rear of the place, where picture windows looked out on the backyard. Not much of the windows were visible though- the place was stuffed with furniture, lamps, knickknacks and boxes upon boxes of books piled up in a jumble. There was a staircase to the upper floor on the left, and after a few moments we'd gone up and were in a roomy bathroom on the second floor. Cullen turned on the faucet in the bathtub, then darted out of the room. He returned in a moment with dark slacks and another pair of socks, a blue flannel shirt, and an extra towel and comb.

"I have a union suit if you like, but I'm sure you've noticed by now that you don't get cold. But if you'd be more comfortable...?" I shook my head. What did anything matter anymore, especially things like underwear? "These should fit you well enough. We're the same height," he said, tucking the clothes onto a shelf. "Your hair has permanently stopped growing. Keep that in mind when you consider shaving or cutting it."

He looked at the mirror on the cabinet, suddenly concerned.

_I should have taken that out of here. His eyes..._

"I already saw them."

He frowned slightly. "When?"

"As soon as I started waking up," I replied quietly. "I saw myself in your mind, but I didn't understand yet. I thought it was a hallucination. But then I saw my reflection in your eyes later."

_That was another thing I was hoping to prepare you for, Edward. I'm sorry it happened that way._

I studied his amber gaze.

"Why don't my eyes look like yours?"

"You're still retaining most of your human blood. That's the source of the color of your eyes for now. It'll take about a year for your body to absorb all of it. After that, your eyes might take on the same color as mine."

"'Might?'"

"That depends on you. Our bodies react differently to animal blood than to human blood." Cullen gestured briefly to his eyes. "This color is a manifestation of that. The rest of our kind have scarlet eyes. So will you, if you choose to feed on humans."

"You're the only vampire who lives only on animal blood?"

He smirked bitterly.

"Let's just say that my eye color makes me as much of a curiosity to other vampires as it makes me to humans."

He turned off the faucet, the tub having filled halfway, then went to the doorway. "I'll leave you while you bathe, then. Don't worry about the socks and pajamas. There's a linen bag under the sink- just put them in that and bring the bag out with you when you're done. Take your time."

He left then, silently concerned about whether or not it was wise to leave me alone. He needn't have worried- at least, not for the moment. I was still in a dumb state of shock. I stood unblinkingly, as still as the rock of Gibraltar, the facts of my new life like waves pounding all around me while I tried to ignore their slow erosion on my consciousness. I don't know how long I stood there, but I came back to my immediate surroundings upon realizing that the tap in the bathtub was drippy. One drop plunked into the water precisely every 95 seconds.

I peeled off the tattered, blood-soaked pajamas and socks, disgusted. My body generated absolutely no heat, so the drenched cotton had frozen during our run back from the hunt. The warmth of the house and long-gone steam from the bathwater had thawed it, and the dead blood was putrid.

When I took my first step into the tub, I yanked my foot back out of the water - it had hit the bottom of the tub with a tremendous _clunk _that had me examining the porcelain enamel for cracks. But the tub was undamaged, so I proceeded, careful about my second step.

Red clouds billowed into the water as I sank into it, dispersing and turning the water a deep shade of pink. It was still warm, and should have felt good- I'd just run dozens miles in the winter night wearing almost nothing and had ripped apart five deer, but I wasn't sore or cold in the slightest. The water could have been freezing, for that matter, and wouldn't have felt more or less comfortable.

A bath was no longer recuperative. It was just a washing station.

I soaped and rinsed mechanically, pausing only to examine curious aspects of my new physique, such as when I noticed that the blood rinsed off without needing any scrubbing. The texture of my luminescent skin looked and felt similar to the porcelain I was sitting on- water simply sheeted off of it. I'd had scattered freckles on my chest before- there was no trace of them anymore. My skin was as unblemished as could be, and pale as an albino's. The veins underneath were gone- or at least invisible. I didn't squeak against the tub, but slid like polished stone, and my muscles were larger. They didn't bulge like a bodybuilder's, but were definitely more pronounced and leaner. My stomach, though flat, had been soft before, but was now shaped by abdominal muscles encased by hard skin. When I lightly pressed the bar of soap to my chest to lather, it flattened like soft clay.

Unnerved, I washed my blood-matted hair and sped through cleaning myself. There was no point in prolonging my time in the bathroom, not even to be alone for a while. There was no "alone." I could hear everything Cullen was up to, and most of what he was thinking.

By the sound of things, he was busy moving all that stuff in the front room to the basement, and repairing the damaged walls and floors down there.

It was hard to catch everything going through his mind- he was contemplating so many things at once. He was glad he'd thought to empty the basement of all its breakable contents before I woke up. He was trying to stave off guilt about leaving St. Luke's while the flu was still doing its worst. He reminded himself to alter the paperwork on my hospital stay after he'd spoken with me. He wondered how soon my friends or relatives might inquire after me. He'd faked the first symptoms of the flu in order to leave that night he took me from St. Luke's, and was figuring out how to turn it into a leave of absence that would go on for months. Or maybe he should just quit altogether.

That particular bit intrigued me. Why would Cullen need to leave his job? I could understand why he kept vigil while I was undergoing that hellish transformation, but what would keep him away from work now?

But he was also thinking of places and people I didn't recognize... filmy-eyed beings in black cloaks that made him uneasy, a dark alley illuminated by the torches of a dozen men, patients who'd died under his care, a ship at sea. He thought in a different language sometimes... it sounded like Italian.

It was fascinating but overwhelming, so I tried to focus on things that dealt specifically with me. Ironically, Cullen thought I was taking everything quite well. I wanted to ask him if being in a disconnected state of shock should be considered "taking it well."

When I was finished washing, I stood without holding the rim of the tub- I didn't need to anymore. Rising without using my arms for leverage was effortless, but mostly I didn't want to damage it with my grip. It was a well-founded fear- when I pulled the stopper from the drain, the steel chain snapped like brittle kite string. I re-shaped the warped link in the chain to repair it, fighting off despondence.

This is what being a vampire was all about? I couldn't understand any of it.

The whole thing might have been easier to accept, I thought, if the freakish doctor had turned into a bat and led me to a crypt furnished with a coffin to sleep in. It would've made sense if I had fangs instead of razors for teeth, and if I'd felt repelling pain when I'd seen the large, rustic crucifix among the things piled up in the front room. I suspected that garlic and holy water wouldn't bother me, either, and that a wooden stake wouldn't have a prayer of penetrating my armor-like skin. And I already knew that my reflection would show up just fine in the cabinet mirror.

Not that I wanted to see my reflection, however. In fact, I made a point not to look in the mirror while I dressed and combed my hair. I'd seen enough of my monstrous new face. Despite how mundane being a vampire seemed to be so far (baths and moving furniture, indeed), there was one horrific fact I was absolutely certain of: the nagging burn inside, though at bay for the moment, was a thirst for human blood.

And there was one more disturbing aspect of this existence creeping up on me... it might last forever. My new mind was capable of handling a dozen thoughts at once, but wrapping around the idea of eternity as this kind of creature... I scurried away from the thought in sheer dread.

As soon as I opened the bathroom door, Cullen addressed me.

_In the basement, Edward._

I grabbed the linen bag and descended from the second floor landing; it appeared that everything had been cleared out of the front room except for some sparse furnishings that already belonged there. The only thing left that still looked out of place was the cross I'd seen earlier, which was propped up against an ornate divan. It was hobbled together out of two thick, polished timbers, and smelled old. It looked like it should have been mounted over the pulpit of a fire and brimstone preacher, not in a vampire's home. It was just big enough to crucify a small child on.

On the opposite wall of the room was a door hanging open- the entrance to the basement. I absentmindedly picked up the cross, slung it over my shoulder and made my way downstairs.

Cullen had put on a fresh shirt almost exactly like the one he'd given me, as well as a black waistcoat. He'd just finished placing a chair behind a large desk when I reached the last stair and he looked up at me.

"Here, let me take those," he said, making his way to me hastily.

I handed the crucifix and linen bag over to him and watched while, with great care, he placed the cross on some mounting brackets already attached to the southern wall.

"I wasn't going to damage it," I muttered.

"It's not that. Well, it's only partly that," he said, walking to the fireplace. He tossed the linen bag into the flames and then returned to me. "You wouldn't have meant to, I know. I'm sorry for being so cautious, but you truly don't know your own strength yet."

I hovered on the last stair, glowering, but Cullen was unfazed. All his thoughts about me culminated into one word, which he voiced with a small smile.

"Welcome."

I stepped ambivalently off the last stair into the expansive room.

It looked vastly different from the last time I'd been in it. The section of wall his back had pulverized during our struggle had been repaired with new paneling, and the dirt was gone. But he evidently didn't have enough material on hand to repair the rest. Although cleaned up, the holes in the floor remained, as did the damage to the stair banister.

Otherwise, the place had been transformed into an inviting den lit by two Tiffany lamps and the fire that had so mesmerized me earlier. The institutional bed that had served as my rack of torture was gone. It its place was now a luxurious oriental rug on which were a pair of matching, plush armchairs facing each other over a round mahogany coffee table. The wall behind them was covered with artwork and maps, the crucifix in the center.

The other walls were lined with thousands of books, and I got the gist of the titles with a perfunctory, sweeping look. They were on all subjects, almost exclusively non-fiction, classic and modern alike, just like the artwork on the south wall. Quite a few were in foreign languages. In the north end of the room was a large desk by the fireplace. Cullen's scent was strong, more than anywhere else in the house I'd been yet, and not just because he was present at the moment. He clearly spent most of his time at home here.

The wet material burning in the fireplace hissed, and the smoky sweet smell mixed in with the myriad other fragrances of leather, aging books... and then my gaze fastened on the source of the best scent in the place: the door on the east end. It was the one that opened up directly to the cement staircase outside.

The winter air beyond that door, and the freedom it promised, was intoxicating. It stirred me partially out of the numbness, and I realized that I would leave soon. But there were still too many questions I needed answers to.

I looked at Cullen, who was watching me pleasantly, but not without some caution. Mostly he was just glad to see me. _I_ was glad that he couldn't hear my thoughts the way I could hear his.

"So how strong am I?" I asked.

"I really couldn't tell you, Edward."

"It's not as if I could go rip apart a railroad bridge... is it?" I asked warily.

"Easily," he replied, smirking. "This damage here- you weren't even trying to destroy this," he said, indicating the damaged floor and rails. "This was all made of hickory- one of the strongest woods known. And it crumbled just because we were slamming agianst it. There's no manmade structure that either one of us couldn't destroy- you especially."

I was speechless for a moment.

"Please sit down," he said in invitation.

I eyed the armchair he meant apprehensively. "I don't feel like sitting." _And I don't want to break it, _I added silently.

"You rarely will. It isn't restful to your body anymore. You'll find that one position is just as comfortable as any other."

"Then why should I sit?"

"If you plan to be around human beings without making them uneasy, you need to mimic their physical habits." He sat in one of the armchairs, exhaling as as if taking his ease. He propped his elbows on the armrests and laced his fingers together, giving me a small smile. "It takes practice, but it's entirely doable."

"How could I make anyone uneasy just by _standing_?"

"It's the _way _you're standing," he replied. "You'd look like stone to people right now, as still as you are- not breathing or blinking, not reacting to anything around you. People tend to notice when you turn into a statue. And when you're not still, you have to be careful to move as slowly as they do."

"So all the time you're at the hospital, you're concentrating on how you're moving?"

"No, not anymore. It's been a matter of habit for me for a long time now. I rarely have to think about it."

I looked again at the holes remaining in the floor and frowned. I clearly had a ways to go before I didn't have to think about how I moved in my world. It would be like learning how to walk all over again.

"I'm sorry about wrecking your basement."

He chuckled. "It's alright. You had every right to be upset. Frankly, I was prepared for worse."

"I know."

He shook his head as if reminding himself of something, and muttered. "Of course." _Your gift is going to take some getting used to._

"Is it really so unique?"

"It certainly is. It'll be interesting to see if it extends to more than just me."

"I'll be able to hear other minds?"

"That's likely. It would be odd if you were limited to reading me. We'll find out soon enough. The way these gifts work seems arbitrary on the surface, but there's usually a rhyme and reason to them."

"What's your gift like?"

"I don't have one. Most vampires don't. All of us have the speed, strength and agility you're becoming acquainted with- which, by the way, is greater during your first year. As you've noticed, you're stronger and faster than I am, but that will fade.

"You've also likely noticed an expanded capacity for thought, and that's normal as well. And you won't physically age anymore. Our bodies are all preserved, if you will, at the age they were when changed. But these other gifts, like yours- they're rare, and never identical. They seem to be manifestations of abilities their bearers had as mortals."

"I couldn't hear other people's thoughts before."

"That's not what I mean. You couldn't read minds then, no, but you were unusually perceptive. That talent has apparently carried over and turned into something much more powerful."

"It doesn't feel like much of a gift."

His gaze fell down to his laced hands. "I don't suppose it would." _My mind can't be the most entertaining thing in the world._

"I didn't mean it that way," I replied hastily, and he looked up at me, startled.

"You really hear _everything,_ don't you?"

I nodded guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. It's just... as I said before, it's going to take getting used to. What did you mean, then?"

"Just that it's strange to know I'm hearing everything you're thinking. _Seeing_ it, even. I don't really want to, but I can't stop it. It makes me... uncomfortable, I guess."

"I hope that will change for you in time."

_In time. _I got stuck on those two words, dreading the questions they brought me to. But I would have to know eventually...

"How long have you been like this?"

"Since the 1660's, just after Cromwell's rule in England," he replied.

The fair-haired doctor looked like he could be no more than an older brother to me, but he was at least 250 years old. I regarded him with what must have looked like amazement.

"There are others of our kind far older than I, Edward, who've dwelt upon this Earth for thousands of years, so ancient that they themselves can't even accurately guess how old they are."

My shock deepened.

"It really is for forever, isn't it?"

_I can't speak of forever, Edward. No one can._ _But by all practical definitions, we're immortal._

I approached Cullen, and finally sat down across from him, staring into his eyes as hard as I could, hoping to see something, _anything_ in his thoughts that promised hope of a life I could relate to. He gazed back, unwavering, and what I saw in his mind was a myriad of beautiful and terrible things: forests at night, moors in springtime, battlefield infirmaries crowded with dying men, plagues, piazzas, vineyards, libraries, classrooms. At one point there was an image of a grand hall, all stone and marble, beautiful but austere, inhabited by cloaked figures descending on a terrified, hissing vampire. Much of it was foreign and strange, too jumbled, and I had no context for any of it. There was only one constant: solitude. Cullen was always alone, even in the company of others. He'd been alone for centuries. The loneliness...

"Change me back," I whispered.

His eyes closed briefly as he shook his head.

_I can't, Edward. There's no going back._

I'd known what his reply would be before I'd made the demand, but it's finality was no less of a blow.

"Can I die?"

"Not by your own hand, if that's what you mean."

My eyes narrowed in both resentment and humiliation. It was exactly what I'd been thinking.

"I know what you're going through better than you can imagine," he told me. "I, too, _loathed_ what I'd become. I didn't want this life, not until I'd been living it for a long time. I tried to kill myself in all kinds of ways in the beginning. I even tried starving myself to death. That's how I know we don't need blood to stay alive. But the pain of living without it becomes so terrible that it drives you to insanity."

Then I thought back to just after the hunt, when he'd informed me that mine had been the first human blood he'd ever tasted... the maddening effect it had on him, the lust it inspired. My stomach twisted with a hollow ache, the thirst flaring... and the idea of doing just that, of sinking my teeth into the throat of a person, beckoned like a siren's song. I could practically feel the gush of hot, living blood coursing into me. So right, so good... tantalizing...

"Edward."

I snapped out of the reverie, meeting Cullen's sharp gaze.

_I know that look on your face all too well._ _Try not to think about it. I'm very sorry, but we'll have to wait for the next nightfall before hunting again._

"It's not a deer's blood that I want," I seethed.

"I realize that." He frowned. "And I won't lie to you- it's going to be impossible not to think of what you _do_ want. Drinking human blood is your natural impulse, but it's not impossible to resist." He leaned forward, holding my gaze. "You have to make a decision, Edward. The way I feed, on the blood of animals, keeps me strong. It can keep you strong, too. It can keep the thirst at bay. But it won't be completely fulfilling. You'll always have to fight off the craving for human blood to some degree. I can promise you this, however: it will get better. The longer you do without it, the easier it gets to resist."

"Why do you do it?"

_Because I value human life as my own. _

"And you're the only... one of our kind who feels that way?"

"Just about. The others feel- and I'm sure you do, too- that their humanity is gone." He trailed off, his gaze becoming distant before he continued in thought. _And it's true, to an extent. We are things apart from humanity. How can those who prey on humans be murderers when they're not even human beings anymore? Most vampires don't even know it's possible for them to live without drinking human blood. _

"But I know better, Edward," he voiced softly. "And there _is _humanity in us. A great deal of it."

"Then why don't I feel it?"

"Because your new instincts are drowning it out."

"Why should I ignore them?" I challenged. "If I'm a vampire, why shouldn't these instincts be the ones I'm supposed to follow?"

"Remember what I said earlier: _who_ you are is more important than _what_ you are. Keep your human memories close. Treasure them, Edward. They're invaluable."

"But my life before this- I don't _feel_ anything for it. The person all of that belonged to is dead."

An argument was nearly on his lips when his thoughts switched, and suddenly he contemplated going to the hospital. _Just a quick run_... _I could be back in less than fifteen minutes. But is it wise to leave him...?_ But then his gaze narrowed, and there was another stream of Italian. That's when it dawned on me that he was deliberately keeping part of his thoughts private... and it _irked_ me.

"I can be left alone for ten damn minutes," I muttered. "I think I can refrain from going on a killing rampage for that long."

"I don't think you understand," he said quietly. "You're a newborn vampire. For the next year or more, your instincts will all but rule you. If someone wanders nearby enough for you to catch their scent, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself. It would be their death sentence."

"Then I won't breathe."

_If something happens because I leave... _He eyed me mistrustfully, and that's when I realized that he would feel _responsible _if I killed someone.

"Really, I won't," I said firmly. I wasn't some weakling at the mercy of this thirst, no matter what he thought. I'd prove it.

After a long pause, he finally nodded, rising from the chair opposite mine. _Alright, I'll go then._

"Wait-" I grabbed his arm as he passed, and he looked down at me with a furrowed brow.

I listened intently. The storm had long passed, and the woods outside were saturated by the sounds of dripping, trickling... melting snow. I could smell pine boughs warming. I'd been sensing it all for awhile, but only just now grasped its implications. He couldn't go out there.

"The sun's out," I warned him.

He grinned, chuckling. "Ah, if only death came to us that easily. I wouldn't have survived my first few hours as a vampire."

"But at the hospital- you always worked nights. You were never around in the daytime. If it's not dangerous, why do you stay out of sunlight?"

"I only stay out of sunlight around people. Come, I'll show you what I mean."

He was still amused as I followed him to the eastern door, where he paused to make sure I wasn't breathing before he opened it. He led me into the cement stairwell and I looked up at the perfectly clear, azure sky above, alight with more depth of color than I'd ever seen it. I could actually discern beams and rings of golden sunlight in the myriad tones of blue and violet. Cullen took a deep drink of air and then looked at me reassuringly.

_You can breathe for now if you like. It's safe._

I did, and sighed, closing my eyes for a moment to enjoy it fully. How could the scent of winter air be so wonderful, so full of life?

I opened my eyes and watched as Cullen ascended the staircase and stepped into direct sunlight, amazed when the beams shattered as if caught by a crystal prism. The exposed skin of his face and hands was transformed into shards of sparkling color, like his skin was armor crafted with millions of microscopic, embedded jewels.

_This is why we can't be seen in sunlight. Come look. See for yourself._

I joined him in the light, excited, turning my hands in front of my face, studying the way they bent the sunbeams, refracting, coruscating...

"It takes getting used to."

"Humans can see this the way we do?"

"I'm not sure if it looks exactly the same to them, but they see it, yes."

"Then how can you go into the city now? Won't you be seen?"

"Perhaps. I won't be announcing my visit, but look north."

And so I did. The northern skies were overcast.

"Chicago's well underneath that cover." He paused. "By the way, thank you, Edward."

"For what?"

Cullen smiled. _For trying to keep me inside. I can't remember the last time someone tried to protect me. I don't think it's ever happened._

I looked at him, deliberately keeping my expression blank. I _had_ tried to protect him, hadn't I?

"It was nothing," I replied, returning my attention to my skin.

"I'll be back very soon. You should stop breathing now."

"Alright," I acknowledged absently, freezing my chest.

He sped away, and for the first time since my transformation, I was gratefully alone with my thoughts.

I opened my shirt and rolled up the sleeves, mesmerized by the new properties of my body. What a strange creature I was! Alone now, I looked around freely... _so how strong am I_ _really_? I picked up a handful of wet snow... it was so soggy that it easily shaped into a little sphere of ice with my cold hands. I made it about the size of a baseball and then gazed beyond the open area around the house, off to the woods perhaps a quarter of a mile away. I didn't take aim at anything in particular, but drew my arm back and then let the ball fly with all my strength, watching it sail high over the trees. I almost stopped tracking it when it passed momentarily in front of the sun, but there was no need. I saw it sharp and clear against the blazing sun, which didn't hurt my eyes at all. Ten full seconds passed, then fifteen, and the iceball kept going, glinting in the sunlight... until it passed over a hill some three miles distant, finally starting a downward arc. I waited, listening for it to hit to the ground, but heard nothing. Eventually I figured it must have landed too far away for me to hear it. I bent to get more snow to make another one, and then came a distant, sharp explosion ofbroken glass, and I stood straight again, amazed. It had landed alright, shattering against stone. I could tell by the sound of it. I looked again at my sparkling, stony arms.

How could Cullen live in a skin like this and cling to the idea of being _human_? How could he deny what he _was?_

_Why _would he? It made no sense at all. We were severed completely from humanity, except to be their natural predators. And this thirst inside...

I caught myself at the last millisecond. I'd almost taken a breath to absorb the scent of my surroundings. The mere _thought_ of human blood had spurred my body into a predatory drive.

My jaw clenched in frustration. It was infuriating that he would make me into this thing and then expect me to just ignore the thirst it filled me with. To _deny _me the right to be what I was! I'd panicked in the basement the night before, when he'd shocked me with that bit about valuing life. I didn't know any better. I didn't know what I was yet. But I did now. The idea of human beings as prey didn't strike me as wrong at all. It felt consummately _natural_, as natural as it had felt to grab a ripe apple from a tree and crunch into it when I was human.

Maybe Cullen was content to starve himself and live a lie, but not me. If I was a vampire, I may as well embrace it. I would run, and I would relish my speed and the delicious scents beckoning to me, even if it led me to human prey. I would _hunt_. He might find it a bitter pill to swallow, but Cullen had wanted to make a vampire out of me. He'd succeeded.

I'd promised to stay until he got back, and I _did _want to stay at least that long. There were still countless questions I had for him. But I would go as soon as I felt prepared.

Admittedly, my conscience twinged at how lonely Cullen was, how badly he wanted a companion. Perhaps I would visit him sometimes. He was an admirable creature, after all. He'd spent centuries battling his instincts and winning. Winning so resolutely, in fact, that he'd become a doctor who safely spent countless hours in the presence of bleeding human beings.

But what an oddly deluded path to take. Cullen was really kidding himself.

I heard his thoughts again before I heard his footfalls.

_... not sure if this is a good idea... could go terribly wrong..._

I chuckled in derision. What was it that he supposed could be going _right?_

When I saw him, I stared in curiosity at a bundle of linen he carried underneath one arm.

He was so relieved to see me waiting right where he'd left me that my guilt over planning to leave deepened... but not anywhere near enough to be dissuaded.

"Don't breathe for a few minutes yet," he requested as we descended into the basement again.

I expended a little stored air to ask why.

"You'll see," he replied, shutting the door.

I watched intently while Cullen walked to his desk, where he unrolled the bundle of sheets. An oddly tender expression knitted his brow when he saw the contents inside. He removed a large bunch of wrinkled blue fabric and draped it over one arm, and then picked out a small object from the bundle with his other hand. Then he looked up at me warily, approaching, displaying his finds for me.

"Do you recognize these?"

I fought harder than ever not to breathe, because I suddenly had to choke back overwhelming emotion.

Of course I recognized them. I knew them so well. In his left palm, Cullen held my mother's wedding ring. Draped over his right arm was the blue satin dress she'd had on the day we checked into St. Luke's. I remembered now... it was the last thing she'd worn before having to change into a hospital gown.

I nodded, reaching out for them.

But he drew back, holding them away.

_No._

I glared at him, my lip curling in a snarl. How dare he?!

Before my anger could completely unfurl, he laid out the dress on the coffee table and placed her ring on top of it, then backed away. I glanced at him.

"Alright, Edward. Breathe now."

I didn't care about breathing right then- I wanted my mother's things. But I let in some air anyways as I moved for the coffee table-

And froze.

_Edward...?_

Cullen's voice faded; my surroundings blinked out.

The sweet perfume coming from those objects was the most torturously alluring thing I'd ever experienced- at least a hundred times better than the scent of the deer from the night before. My insides were instantly desiccated, aflame, and I _needed_ nourishment from the source of that scent. _Find it, kill it, drink from it..._

The only thing that stopped me from ripping that dress to shreds and then tearing mindlessly out the door to find a similarly-scented, live victim was the thought that had so held me before I took that breath.

_Mother._

If she'd been standing before me been in that dress, alive, it would have been _her_ that I'd have torn into. The horrific realization paralyzed me, locked in a death grip with my thirst. What would I have done to her?

I fell to my knees, every muscle coiled with the effort to restrain monstrous violence that clawed to get out of me. I heard unearthly screaming, and knew it was my own. I buried my face in my hands as if it would block her scent, and I choked with the effort to stop breathing, but I couldn't.

Would she have seen me coming? Would I have seen the fear in her eyes as I closed in on her? Hear the despair in her cries as she realized her own son was sinking his teeth into her throat? Would I have even _cared_?

God, I would have killed her. My world was black- just unbearable, unquenchable thirst roiling inside, demanding to be slaked... and knowledge that it was murderous.

I became aware of Cullen with me on the floor, his embrace restraining me. My back and arms were crushed to his silent chest, but my feet scraped and kicked as he tried to calm me, and at some point I started hearing him again.

_...I knew you were strong. Most would have torn it to pieces without a thought._

"Help me," I hissed. "Don't let me do it."

_I'll see you through this, I promise. I know where you are now, the hell of it... it seems like there'll never be an end to the thirst, the craving, like nothing else matters. And the emotions- you're at the mercy of them right now, Edward. We feel things more keenly than humans, and right now all those feelings are more intense than they'll ever be. But it all gets better, I swear. So much better. One day you'll stop in the middle of what you're doing and realize that you haven't thought about human blood for hours, and then it'll be days..._

It sounded like a pipe dream. But it had to be possible. It _had _to be. His thoughts came through in soothing waves, locked in combat with the monster inside me. I twisted and thrashed, not struggling against Carlisle, but against the maelstrom of darkness inside.

_Shhh, you'll be alright soon. We'll go hunting again tonight. That'll take the edge off. Time, just time. But do you see now? There's still so much humanity in you, dear boy. And it won. It was stronger. Remember that, when you wonder what you are. _

"I will, I'll try," I choked.

_Who are you? Tell me._

"Edward... Edward Anthony Masen, Jr."

_What was your father's name?_

"Edward Anthony Masen."

_And your mother's name?_

"Elizabeth Carol Masen."

_What was your father's profession?_

"He was a lawyer."

_Was he good at it?_

"Yes."

He asked me about my cousins, my house... all about my life before the flu... and as the hours passed, the rage and fear ever so slowly subsided with the thirst. Then it faded into shame when I realized that I'd been looking forward with gleeful anticipation to killing someone's brother, son, daughter, father, niece...

And he saw me through those dreadful hours, until finally I opened my eyes when I felt something soft. Carlisle had placed her dress in my hands. And I just held it.


	8. An Object Worth Constancy

Chapter 7 – An Object Worth Constancy

_Art thou pale for weariness  
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,  
Wandering companionless  
Among the stars that have a different birth,  
And ever changing, like a joyless eye  
That finds no object worth its constancy?_

- by Percy Bysshe Shelley

* * *

**I wish** I could say that I was cured that morning- that when I'd finally calmed down enough to hold my mother's dress and examine her ring, I was always fine after that, but the next attack of thirst was only hours away. I knew it would come, too. As I held that gold ring in the palm of my hand, with its diamond-encrusted oval that I could so easily crush to dust if I closed my fist too tightly, I was haunted by the realization that it was merely her scent that had driven me to such distraction. It hadn't even been the scent of her blood - just the scent of her humanity. I felt foolish for thinking Carlisle was being overcautious about insisting that I hold my breath.

In the throes of thirst I couldn't be trusted around my own family, if I'd still had any. The grief of it cut me to the quick.

"Will you please keep these safe for me?" I finally asked Carlisle, humiliated. "Put them someplace where I won't smell them when the thirst gets bad?"

"I could wash them for you."

I shook my head, _no_. I didn't want that. I desperately wanted her scent, that link to her, but being so close to it was still torture. Maybe one day it wouldn't be. I hoped the scent would still be there when that day came.

He understood.

_Yes, of course I will._

He took them gently from my hands and disappeared for a while. I made a point not to pay attention to what direction he took when he left the house, and this time he didn't have to tell me to quit breathing.

It was while he was gone that, for the first time, I truly felt the loss of my family. Something besides my understanding of my true nature had changed the moment I saw her things: all that cool, foreign distance had been shattered, and humanity was no longer so apart.

_"If I'm a vampire, why shouldn't those be the instincts I'm supposed to follow?" _I'd asked.

So this had been Cullen's answer. He was, if nothing else, good at making his points.

If only there were more reasons to celebrate my rediscovered humanity than there were to grieve it. Every bond I had with anyone, with anything from that world, was gone.

I lay curled on the floor in stillness, paralyzed by aching, hollow loss. My parents were dead. I couldn't be with my friends or extended family again without risking their lives, or the discovery of my horrible new secret. All these things that were supposed to be inevitable components of life- things I'd so thoroughly taken for granted I hadn't even realized how much I wanted them- were no longer possible. No going on in school, no profession, no wife and children someday. I couldn't even go out in sunlight among people. I couldn't go out among people at all, without wanting to kill them.

There was only one bond, and it had barely been created. I couldn't even define it. All I knew was that Carlisle Cullen, if nothing else, was my teacher. He was all I had left.

I tried to put away some of the pain as I helped him clean up his library when he got back. After collapsing to my knees, nearly blacking out in the thirst- I hadn't realized it, but Cullen had been holding me through a writhing fit before he'd finally gotten me talking. My feet had scraped the floor, shoving more boards up and splintering them into ruins. My fingers had clawed into the rug, ripping through it and gouging the floor underneath. One kick had sent a chair careening through the room and smashed it into the south wall. Luckily enough only three works of art had fallen: two paintings and a limestone bas relief plaque. Only the frames of the paintings had been irreparably damaged, and the plaque was chipped, but glue would take care of it. The chair, however, was a goner.

I wondered that I hadn't overpowered Dr. Cullen and broken free. He said I'd been holding back of my own accord. I didn't remember being conscious of any such self-control, but he insisted, so I let it go.

Afterward we sat quietly on the floor in front of the fireplace, occasionally feeding a wrecked piece of frame, chair or floorboard to the willing flames.

That's when the next attack of thirst came on. Cullen had been showing me his memory of that night in the hospital when he'd helped my mother to bed. When he came to the part where he'd helped me through my coughing fit, with my blood spattering his handkerchief, I snarled and every muscle coiled with predatory tension as the craving flared. My insides turned into cracked desert earth, baked so hot and dry that raindrops would evaporate before hitting the surface. _Blood!_ Rich, sweet blood, that most essential elixir. Oh, how I could drench myself in it, drink a river of it!

Cullen didn't try to maintain conversation, fully aware that the riot of my bloodsoaked imaginings kept me more than occupied. He sat across from me and watched with patience, his gaze an anchoring tether, trying to soothe me with his thoughts, as though they would be more calming than spoken words.

_Defeat it one moment at a time... keep your eyes on me, Edward... it will pass._

I tried to fight the thirst but soon realized there was no fighting it, for God's sake, only _hiding_ from it; creating a tiny fortress in my mind where reason held sway, and retreating into it as deeply as I could. The fragile barriers of that little refuge were always on the verge of collapsing. I could fortify them only with a tenuous grasp on the fact that it had been Cullen's memory of _my own_ blood that had sent me into near oblivion. My vision narrowed into a blade with the nearly impossible effort it took to stay put and hold the violence prisoner inside me. I remained paralyzed for hours, my chest rumbling with growls that often erupted into hyperventilating snarls.

At last, as the embers in the fireplace cooled, so too did my thirst. The first free thought I had was to wonder when the next attack would come... and the one after that, and the one after that.

"How can you stand it?" I finally hissed despondently. "How can you stand to be around them all the time? To be covered in their damned blood?"

"I hate to tell you this, knowing how you feel right now," he said, "but I barely feel the thirst anymore. Remember, it takes a long time, but the craving does diminish."

I laughed bitterly. The discipline of his lifestyle required so much deprivation and toil that he made Quakers look like decadent sloths. Not only did two-hundred fifty years of defeating this craving sound like torture, it sounded impossible.

"Who was it that showed you how to live like this?"

"Nobody."

"What about the one who made you?"

"I never knew him."

"How is that possible?"

Carlisle Cullen sighed almost imperceptibly, his eyes unwavering.

_He didn't intend to change me, at least not at first. He meant to kill me._

A deluge of images swept into my mind, and I welcomed them in curiosity.

At first I saw darkness and fog, and I wondered if it was the haze of his mortal memory making the pictures so filmy, but soon enough it was apparent that the fog was real. It was thick, and...

_Cullen was moving through it in a breathless run, thrilled to the core and very, very human. I felt his gushing heartbeat accelerating in exhilaration, heard it pounding in time with his deep breaths. I felt a pinch at the nape of his neck, realizing his hair was much longer and tied back. When he looked around I caught flashes of his clothing- a black cassock and white collar, and a crucifix jangling heavily from his neck..._

A priest? I was intensely curious about that, but had no chance to dwell...

_All around him were heavy footsteps on cobblestone, running, following him. He led a dozen men through the dark, narrow streets of London, the dim glow of their torches twisting through alleys and thoroughfares. It must have been the earliest hours of morning; what few passers-by there were saw his group approaching and couldn't get away fast enough. Recognizing Cullen and the men who followed him seemed to strike terror in their hearts, though not out of fear of Cullen himself. It was the reason for his presence that made them scurry away for hearth and home._

_He was on a hunt, and his quarry was a demon. The creature and its kind had taken up residence in the sewers; filthy parasites coming out at night to feed on those unfortunate enough to cross their path. The evidence was too much to ignore; they were careless about the corpses they left behind. The coven of fiends knew they were being stalked and had stayed below in recent weeks, but Cullen was patient and undeterrable. For longer than a month he'd watched and waited, enlisting the other men to aid in the nightly vigil. Together they kept an eye on the vampires' potential surfacing portals by night._

_At last, one of them had been caught trying to emerge in a district about a half mile north of where they were running. __It had tried the very same portal that Cullen had assigned to himself that night. __His long nights of vigilance had paid off. _

_It had been quiet, but not just because of the hour. People who ventured out into London's dense fog at such times of the night knew better than to draw attention to themselves. The mist soaked up their deliberately soft footsteps, cocooning them in their own bubble. _

_So the nightmorning hours went by in silence while he hovered by a large, square grate, often peering down into blackness for any sign of movement. Lately, disheartening thoughts had become prevalent; maybe the whole exercise was futile. After so many weeks, and nothing, it was easy to think that the creatures had vanished; perhaps moving on, or just disappearing in a puff of smoke. Sometimes he even questioned if he'd really seen what he thought he had. But it only took revisiting the memory of that unntural coruscation of the form he'd glimpsed, and his resolve strengthened. His chance of success was incredibly small, but so very worthwhile. And so he watched, waiting, listening, without even knowing what he was really listening for.  
_

_But he knew it when he heard it. His brow furrowed when he thought he detected a strange hiss, coming from below. It sounded distant at first, increasing in volume, Cullen's heartbeat quickening as the sound rapidly approached- and then stopped right at the grate right beneath him. That's when he realized that the noise hadn't been a voice, but air; air whirring as if being sliced through at great speed. _

_Unable to see what had caused it, he backed away two steps as his blood ran cold, instinct clawing at his insides with fear... it had to be one of them. He could feel it in his bones... it was right there underneath that grate, just a few feet away, cloaked by darkness. _

_All was quiet again, but it wasn't a mere absence of noise, but the silence of a predator waiting to strike.  
_

_Cullen waited, half-paralyzed by fear, his mind scrambling for something rational, demanding some sort of confirmation beyond a rush of air. As soundless seconds elapsed, p__aranoia started warring with his fear; he was wasting time! What if the creature had already moved on, unheard, and he'd lost his chance?_

_And then came another sound from beneath, like a long, deep breath, and Cullen couldn't fight the sickening feeling that he was being sniffed out.  
_

_Funneling all of his courage, he made a swift move, lunging forward and sweeping his torch over the grate.  
_

_It was the right move. This time the hiss was vocal, an ordinary Latin word spoken as if it was a curse. _

_"Ignis!"_

_Cullen's wide-eyed gaze caught a flutter of movement, and he realized the vampire had darted east through the subterranean tunnels.  
_

_He stood straight, his mind churning. The demon was probably heading for the nearest unwatched portal! It wasn't far, and the route through the streets was much, much quicker than the path through the underground labyrinth beneath. If he could get there before the vampire, it would be perfect. There would be no escape. At last, he'd capture a true devil and hold it accountable to God. But there was no time to lose. He ran as fast as he could, shouting for any of his companions within hearing distance to join him. _

It caught me off guard to hear him speaking in an unfamiliar accent as that memory played out; it didn't sound like British accents I'd heard before. Then I reminded myself that all of this had taken place hundreds of years ago... they wouldn't sound the same...

And yet, here he sat. His current accent was undeniably mid-west American, his hair short, wearing clothes that spoke of modern money. Other than that, he was unchanged, with these dim, human memories of long ago playing for me. My new mind wrapped around the impossible facts too easily: Carlisle Cullen had started as a seventeenth-century Englishman who had once thought to take on vampires. I couldn't imagine any number of armed humans being able to seize me, let alone take me someplace against my will.

"You were really going to try capturing on of _us_?" I asked incredulously. "Were you insane?"

The images in Carlisle's mind faded as he smiled wryly.

_Ludicrous, isn't it? __But then..._ "How much did you know about vampires before you became one? So very little of what you once supposed about us is true, the biggest fallacy being, of course, that we don't exist. There are no groaning, corpse-like monsters rising from their graves. No susceptibility to wooden stakes, no combustion in sunlight. The blood, though..." _Stop, _he reminded himself. _He knows that part all too well._ His gaze refocused. "Would you have expected the strength?" he asked. "The speed? Think of all the myths you grew up with, and then multiply them by ten. We were so much more superstitious then, Edward... deeply so. Unlike the people in this place and time, we believed. That doesn't mean we weren't wrong though."

His smile faded.

"When I was human, I thought I knew everything that could be known about the undead. I'd scoured every meager library available to me, spent hours upon hours consulting upper clergymen who claimed to know the nature of the demons who dwelt in our midst..."

Cullen cocked his head to the side, glancing at the crucifix that loomed on the southern wall.

_I honestly thought that would protect me._

"Your clothes- you were a priest?"

"An Anglican minister, as was my father. I was twenty-three, just beginning to take up his mantle. He was passionately dedicated to cleansing society of the devil's minions, of the unrepentant, the blasphemers, the impious..."

Another set of memories washed through my mind, murky, but discernible...

_Carlisle was a very small child, covering his nose in a feeble attempt to keep out a horrible stench. A crowd of shouting people towered around him. He was upset and wanted to cry, but instinct gnawed at him inside, imploring him to stay quiet. He tried inching diminutively away, thinking perhaps he could just wander off elsewhere, but was tugged into stillness by the iron grip of his father's hand around his. There were wrenching screams coming from somewhere beyond the crush of people all around him. He buried his face into his father's black robes, but even that attempt to escape his surroundings was thwarted._

_"No, boy," his grim-faced father said, "Never look away from God's wrath. See what becomes of the wicked!"_

_With that he was lifted into his father's arms and the source of the screaming became all too visible. Three blackened figures, bound to thick timbers, were mounted above massive pyres. Carlisle could hardly tell if they were men or women they were so disfigured, but one of them wasn't much bigger than he was, and it wasn't moving anymore. The two adults, though, were still twisting as fire licked at them. The wood had been dampened by rain the previous evening and had taken hours to really blaze, but the flames had been enough to roast its victims. Long, boiled patches of their skin hung off, smoldering, and there was no hair or clothing left. Their eyelids were gruesomely seared shut, and their screams were beginning to sound inhuman._

_"Behold!" his father cried, "The voice of the devil within them can no longer be disguised! The flames purge!"_

_Carlisle crashed the side of his face to his father's chest and clasped a hand over his other ear, but his father's words and the crowd's resounding shouts still reverberated through him._

_And then the vision gave way to a series of new images... books... avoiding certain gatherings of his father's as he grew older... reading the bible studiously, seeing mercy there... traveling to the outer reaches of England to seek out elders and other clergy members..._

"I knew, even as a boy, that those poor souls couldn't have committed any crime worth that punishment. I knew they weren't unnatural beings. But my father was a respected man and I admired his piety, even though he was the head of the tribunal who'd condemned them. He earnestly believed they were creatures of the devil and he took his responsibility seriously. It seemed that he led an upstanding life, and because of that I wanted to be like him, even if I secretly sought to avoid his mistakes. I was certain that, if the real demons could be found and punished, he would see the error of his ways and the false accusations would end.

"I was twenty-one when I took my father's place at the head of the tribunal. I couldn't stop the accusations, but I could stop the convictions at last."

_A trembling girl no more than fourteen stood before him, irons locked around her wrists and ankles. Her head hung down in both terror and resignation. Cullen, seated between two other men, regarded her with compassion. A large crucifix was mounted on the wall behind the girl and those gathered around her, and I recognized it immediately as the very same one that I had carried down to the basement the previous night._

"I demanded evidence that no one had previously asked for, and the result was, of course, that the falsely accused couldn't be proven guilty."

_The girl had employed the craft of the devil, bewitching her neighbor into making inappropriate advances on her, tempting him to break his marital vows; such was the accusation at hand. It was something she was going to burn for, and she would have, had Carlisle's father been in his place. But that wasn't the case any longer. Carlisle saw the situation for what it was; she was merely a pretty girl and her neighbor was a letch who'd gotten caught trying to take advantage of her._

_Carlisle announced as much. The girl instantly lifted her head and let out an astonished cry of relief, weeping gratefully as her bonds were unlocked. Her father rushed in to lead her away, thanking the tribunal profusely. "May the Lord bless you for this, good sirs! Thank you, thank you!"_

_The elder Cullen observed the proceedings with a glower of disapproval, but Carlisle remained unperturbed, confident in his rightful place and decision._

"I was certain I'd win my father's favor when I was able to produce a true monster. During the two years I was on the tribunal, I spent every spare moment searching, learning. Every time there was a rumor of dark creatures haunting a place, I looked, but I never found them. That is, not until I started watching the sewer portals after hearing so many reports about the vampires coming out of them at night, and then I finally caught a glimpse one early morning, just at dawn. It was so quick- just a darting figure that threw the light in an unnatural way, but I'd seen it with my own eyes and knew what it was. It was too dangerous to go down into the sewers, but I called upon the men in my congregation for volunteers to help with the vigil, watching until they tried to come out and feed again. If only I'd known, if only I'd realized... I was so naive..."

_...coming out of a murky bank of fog, Cullen and his companions rounded one last corner into a claustrophobic alley and slowed to a standstill, watching the sewer grate at the far end. A boy of perhaps thirteen moved ahead anxiously, but Carlisle laid a hand on his shoulder, halting him._

_"You must use caution, Samuel," he said gravely. The boy heeded his advice, pausing apprehensively, and they all waited._

_It wasn't long before they heard what they were listening for, but it didn't come in the form of demonic hissing or scampering feet below. The fog suspended above the heavy iron grate swirled as though something incredibly fast moved below, and a single, hollow moan ghosted through the misty silence._

_Carlisle stepped forward in fascination with his torch held aloft, drawn to the alien beauty of the grieved voice. It sounded like agony, like the damned, but so strangely angelic..._

_But then the sound twisted into an unearthly cry of fury, and it was too late. The massive grate was already gone, smashing into the side of one of the buildings. A cascade of stone and wood tumbled down and the startled men backed out of the way. Their torches cast a fiery orange glow on the fog and settling dust as the vampire emerged from it, and they steeled themselves, waiting for Carlisle's signal._

_It was a moment Cullen had waited for all his life- his first real look at a vampire. A chance to face off with true evil. It was a male, and its lithe, muscular body, clad in a ragged tunic that had no doubt once belonged to some unfortunate victim, looked as smooth and pale as marble- stark in contrast to its black eyes and wild, dark hair. Its face distorted into a hideous grin as it fixed its inky stare on Carlisle._

_It was more glorious and terrible than he'd ever imagined. His life's work was finally on the verge of accomplishment, and yet, with sinking dread, Carlisle realized his goal would remain unachieved. In that pale, horrifically beautiful form in front of him, he saw the face of his own death... and the death of every man with him in that alley. There wasn't even time to warn the others._

_In a blur of motion and snarling Cullen's back was smashed against cobblestone and he heard his own ribs crack. All his breath was knocked out of him, rendering him unable to even scream, and it felt like a block of ice was pinning him fast. In the same instant came a horrible, ripping pain at his throat and a sharp ache rushed through every vein in his body... he was being drained._

_Samuel and several others shouted, dropping their torches and scrambling to wrest Carlisle away from the creature, but it was their undoing._

_The fiend tore itself away from Carlisle's broken body, slinging away one man and then another- they collided against the alley walls in sickening crunches of bone. It fell on one of them, biting into his chest and drinking ravenously. Samuel tried to run with the others, but was unfortunately at the rear of the group. The vampire, already finished draining a now-lifeless corpse of its lifeblood, grabbed his wrist as he fled, wrenching the boy's arm out the socket. Samuel screamed in pain, screamed for help... but those who escaped didn't look back as they tore off into the fog._

_The vampire dragged the limp, begging boy back to the rear of the alley, then it leaned over the void where the grate had been, hissing, and speaking too quickly to be understood... addressing an unseen companion in the darkness below. Struggling through pain and blood loss to remain conscious, Carlisle watched helplessly as Samuel was flung down into the sewer like so much rubbish. For several moments there was only silence, and then the boy's echoing sobs came through from below, this time escalating into screams of terror that were suddenly silenced._

_Carlisle turned over on his stomach to crawl away, covering the wound in his neck in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, but suddenly he was flat on his back again and searing pain shot through his chest and ribs. The vampire was above him once more with one stone foot planted heavily on Carlisle's shoulder, ready to crush him._

_Cullen glared up defiantly and began choking out a prayer, fighting for breath, preparing his soul to be sent to God. But the creature didn't strike. It hovered intently with eyes turning from black to molten red, and its gaze swept from Carlisle's crucifix necklace to the wound in his throat. Its expression twisted into a vicious sneer as it leaned down to Carlisle's ear and hissed three words:_

_"Existo vos sceleste!"_

_The vampire swiped his neck once more in a blur of speed, and then... it was gone._

_As he lay alone in the darkness, Carlisle's gaze lifted towards the heavens in abject terror and pain. The inferno within was kindling..._

"I knew what was happening to me," he said quietly.

The images faded again, and he was silent.

"'_Existo vos sceleste_,'" I murmured. So strange. Human memories of family, friends, events... so difficult. But the things I _learned_ were more than intact; translating the strangely conjugated Latin was effortless. "'Be ye accursed.'"

Carlisle nodded, again very slightly. His calm expression hadn't changed throughout his recollections of that night so long ago. I recalled the gleeful malice on the vampire's face as it cursed him, and the sheer cruelty of it... to deliberately strike down a man sworn to God, and enslave him to an unholy eternity.

How had Cullen managed to rein in such vicious thirst?

"You knew what it would be like? The change?" I asked.

"No, I only knew it was happening. I didn't know what it would be like. I knew it would be painful, but I had no idea just how excruciating, or that it would last for days."

"How long _does_ it take?" Up until then, I hadn't known exactly how long I'd been writhing in agony, convinced I was in hell. It had felt like an eternity.

_The change varies somewhat for all of us, but the venom always burns, it's always agony, and it usually takes about three days to run its course._

An image of me, screaming to God for mercy, flashed through his mind, and he shut his eyes in an expression of remorse.

"It's alright," I told him quietly. I even meant it, in a way. The memory of that unbelievable nightmare would always haunt me, but I knew by then that if there'd been any way to spare me the agony, he would have.  
_  
_"Thank you, Edward." _I'm grateful you feel that way, but I hope you'll understand that I haven't quite come to terms with it yet._

"You endured the same pain," I said.

"Only because there was no one left to end it for me. My first attempt to kill myself happened as soon as I felt the burning start."

I saw more images in the alley again. His injuries had rendered him nearly unconscious- I could barely make out the shapes, the vision was so dim, but it was no less terrible and raw.

_Too weak to stand or crawl, he dragged himself slowly to the sewer opening, choking back screams as the flames started coursing through his veins. His fingers found the edge of the portal, and without pausing even to look into the void, he gave one more pull and let himself tumble over the edge._

"I hoped they would still be down there, still hungering, that they would finish me off before the venom changed me."

_He plummeted into stench and blackness... the smash of muddy stone. The fresh pain fueled a last burst of energy and he rose to his knees, clawing at his collar as if it would release the scorching fire within his throat. He waited for the hissing, the ripping teeth..._

_"Take me, ye devils!" he screamed, "I am here!"_

_But his cries echoed back to him from a damp, hollow abyss._

"In those moments, when I realized they were gone, I thought to keep screaming. If they wouldn't kill me, then maybe men would. They would find me and know I was becoming something unnatural. They would drag me into the light and set me on fire... and then the implications of that struck more terror into my heart than death itself. My father would hear from the men who'd escaped about what had happened, they would think me dead... but if I emerged, damned... the thought of my father seeing his son like that... the shame, the terrible shame. I couldn't let him see what I'd become. My congregation... no. Let them think I'd died. I would endure the change and then find my own way..."

_He lay on wet, filthy stone, wretched. A strip of anemic daylight filtered down into his torture chamber, and fighting through unbearable pain, Carlisle closed his ice-blue, terrified eyes against the dawn. The shadows of occasional passers-by above sliced through... __murmurs of the curious far up, looking in... __somebody replaced the grate... the sound of the fallen brick wall being cleared... far below, in darkness they couldn't see through, he choked back his screams and curled up under an outcropping of broken stone, silent, trembling._

_Night fell again... shaking, he tore at his cassock, his fist closing like a vise, so tightly that his fingers broke with his growing strength even as the venom repaired them... and another day._

_The vision faded into hell... nothing but fiery torment... his entire being was focused only on a tremulous hold he barely kept on his voice... one thought chanted over and over: Don't make a sound... you mustn't... Dear God, please! Oh, God!_

_His heart thumping, racing for life but losing no matter how fast and hard it beat... the panic... a burst in his chest..._

_Stillness._

_Faint light came down again as Carlisle lay quietly on his stomach, his face resting on one cheek. His blood-red eyes drifted open, widening, taking in his surroundings with new sight. He remained still but for one hand, which lifted slowly into a pale sunbeam. The light broke upon his skin, setting it aflame in sparkling prisms, and his face crumpled in grief._

"I knew what I was."

As the images faded, I sat still, entranced. How was what I had just seen possible? He'd endured every moment of those three days and nights in silence. I'd screamed my guts out. It was almost disturbing how much strength it would have taken to stay so quiet. Humanity had bustled above throughout his ordeal, oblivious to the agony under their feet.

And infinitely worse was his shame. For as much as I loathed my monstrous new nature, he'd hated himself easily ten times more. He'd been cast down and reborn as a creature that represented everything he'd stood against in life. And the manner of it... so utterly abandoned and alone.

I tried to imagine what it would have been like if Carlisle had dragged me from the hospital, torn into my throat and then left me in an icy Chicago alley to descend alone into the inferno of transformation. What would have become of me? Where would I have gone while the flames took me? How many would I have killed before even having the chance to realize what I was?

And yet the only blood on Carlisle's hands was that of people he tried to save. How was it _possible_? The way I was handling all of this... it was embarrassing in comparison. I felt like a pansy.

"I'm sorry," he said, jarring me out of my preponderance. "I shouldn't be telling you about all this right now. I imagine it's overwhelming."

"No... I just don't understand how you did it. I couldn't have done that."

"Perhaps you could have, if you'd had the same advantage that I did," he said.

"Advantage?"

"Yes. You see, I _knew_ what was happening to me; I knew it would end. You had no idea. And I was also under the impression that I'd be able to destroy myself afterwards. The notion that it would all be over with soon, if only I could get through the change, turned into my only reason to endure it in silence."

"So you kept trying to kill yourself after you woke?"

He nodded slightly. "It was the only thing I could focus on through the thirst. I remember, all too well, that first day... the thirst when I took my first breath, and the scent of them, all around me in that city." Cullen's gaze narrowed as he deliberately skipped revisiting the day of his awakening. _No, _he thought. _Try not to think of things that will kindle the boy's thirst._ "I waited for the cover of night before leaving the sewers, but after that, I made my way out..."  
_  
Sharp, polished blades screeched against his forearms and shattered against his chest. Poisons trickled down his throat, causing only a disgust in his senses... he plummetted towards jagged rocks that were pounded by surf, and broke them into pieces... and then came the strangest image of all- perfect darkness, though his eyes were open, and a horrible, strange sulfurous taste- he lay curled in the deepest reaches of the ocean, unaffected by the tremendous pressure, holding harmless water in his lungs. The darkness cocooned him, but provided no solace from the rage within..._

"I wish I could tell you how I did it, but I went months without feeding. My last resort was to starve myself to death. If vampires needed blood, then surely they would die without it. I was so wrong."

_He banished himself to the wilderness, anything to be away from humans. Carlisle hid naked in the crag of a huge stone on the edge of moonlit Yorkshire moors, convulsing in agony, losing every shred of sanity he had, bit by bit, until he could no longer even think. His last cognitive thought came as his black gaze beseeched heaven to release him..._

"And finally I could resist the scent of blood no longer."

_It was March, and tender new growth hid beneath an inch of freshly fallen snow. A doe dug her hoof into it, seeking the fragile nourishment underneath._

_Carlisle crashed her to the ground... a haze of violent grace, lives extinguished..._

_Finally, a dead buck lay over him, its neck extended over his abdomen. Peace becalmed Carlisle's tortured features, and his eyes, so long blackened by thirst, were already filling with gold. He'd starved himself for so long that his body had consumed every last drop of his own blood inside. He felt his body and mind healing, tingling, coming to life._

"After I'd fed, I was amazed by the difference. My human memories were nearly gone, ravaged, but I almost felt... like _me_ again. I wasn't some demon mindlessly consumed by bloodlust. My body, my mind and emotions- yes, they'd all changed- but I was still myself. After a few weeks of staying in the wilderness, and hunting animals, I knew it _wasn't_ a fleeting illusion.

Why could I not live like this? Had I not eaten venison in my previous life?

I could exist in this form without being iniquitous... it was no less than a revelation. "

_Galaxies of stars glinted riotously overhead as he looked towards heaven again, this time with tenuous hope..._

...and then disappeared as the memories stopped coming through to me.

"I didn't have to be a monster."

"No," I replied quietly, lost in wonder.

"Neither do you, Edward."

"No."

Carlisle gave me a small smile and started arranging tinder in the cooled fireplace. In seconds he had it blazing again, and together we watched the flames in silence. I sat with my knees drawn up, wrapped in my arms with my chin resting on them, while he sat Indian-style. I didn't pay particular attention to his thoughts at that moment, instead mulling over all I'd just seen, humbled.

That's when it occurred to me- there had been quite a bit of blood in the memories he'd shown me, and none of it had triggered my thirst. It was the first tangible sign of the progress he'd said I would make. _Well, how about that,_ I thought. For the first time since waking, I felt a spark of optimism.

"It's a good time to go hunting again, if you like," he said.

"No thanks," I replied. "I feel alright for now."

I wanted to push myself a little. This recent development had bolstered my spirits. And, after all, if he could go _months_ without feeding, I could make it through another bout or two of thirst before making him take me hunting again.

"Are you certain? You might not feel the same way a few hours from now."

"I'm sure." I smiled crookedly and tossed a piece of frame into the fire.

"You must be feeling better_,__" _he chuckled. "I haven't seen you smile like that since the first night you were in the hospital._"__ Of course,_ _you were saying the same thing then that you are now._

"What do you mean?"

"You were insisting that you felt just fine."

"Yeah, that sounds like me."

We fell into quiet, throaty laughter together, and as it settled, I tried to see into his thoughts more deeply to find something that explained him. I was still in awe of all he'd shown me, and couldn't help feeling that there had to be something... _extra_ in Carlisle that gave him the strength he had. Maybe he was wrong that he had no gift. Maybe inner strength was his gift.

I wanted to know more; more about him, about what he'd seen and done and learned.

I wanted to stay.

Did I still want to leave? Eventually, I guess. But not for a while, and when I did go, I would follow his example, now that I saw it was possible. For now, I was alright with sticking around. Move with him a couple times, see how he did it. Keep each other company. Questions flurried through my mind: did he keep the same name every time? Did he always pretend to be a doctor, or other things, too? Did he actually go to medical school? What would I do?

I wondered where we would go after leaving Chicago. If he had any plans worked out, they weren't in his thoughts right then. Looking at Carlisle in that moment, all I saw was someone radiating deep, contented joy. At long last, he was in the company of another creature who truly knew him.

* * *

Chapter End Notes:

My apologies to fellow canon purists for the blatant lack of rotting potatoes. ;D There are several things about Stephenie's account of Carlisle's history that were, shall we say, wanting. First, there were no burnings-at-the-stake happening in England during Carlisle's time. Most of the witch-hunts had ended by then, but even while they were happening, the victims were mostly drowned or hung. Also, it was Calvinists who spearheaded most of the religious persecution, not Anglicans. Also, there was no real sewer system in London during Carlisle's time. It wasn't built until the Victorian era. What existed in the seventeenth century was only a series of shallow, open canals that ran in the streets down to the Thames River (yuck!). Also, there were no potatoes. Potatoes are indigenous to the western hemisphere, South America, specifically, and hadn't been introduced in England as a food crop yet. They were merely interesting plant specimens from the New World, known only to a few botanists.

Despite that, I kept to canon, except for the potatoes. I intended to keep them, but Carlisle had other plans.

Continuing thanks to the readers, and especially the reviewers.

And thanks, also, to the original validation beta for this story, texbelle.


	9. The Prisoner

Chapter 8 - The Prisoner

_ALL right, Go ahead!  
What's in a name?  
I guess I'll be locked into  
As much as I'm locked out of!_

- _The Prisoner_ by Edna St. Vincent Millay

_ December 3rd, 1918 _

_Dear Mr. Cole,_

_ Although I'm certain you heard the news a couple of weeks ago, I'm writing to officially inform you of my recovery from Spanish Influenza. It's no great pleasure to regain my health while my family did not, and in truth I have yet to fully come to terms with it. After I've completed my convalescence, I hope to find some peace with these terrible events. _

_ I am pleased, however, to inform you of one Dr. Carlisle Cullen, a resident physician of St. Luke's, who was an acquaintance of my parents' and happened to be one of our primary caregivers, first for my father last summer, and also while my mother and I were hospitalized in November. Dr. Cullen is an exceptional and dedicated doctor, and I was fortunate enough to cultivate a friendship with him while I was ill._

_ Unfortunately, the same week I recovered, Dr. Cullen himself contracted the flu. Reluctant to be a burden to his fellows at the hospital, he conscientiously removed himself to his house located outside the city as soon as the first symptoms appeared. _

_ I'm recovering speedily and no longer at risk of infection. Considering how attentive Dr. Cullen was to my family, it seems the least I can do is assist him now since he has no family of his own. I have joined him indefinitely at his country house, where I hope my efforts will help him recover._

_ As executor of my parents' estate, I expect you have some matters to discuss with me. Due to my current location and situation, I regret that I will be unable to meet with you in person. It grieves me that the same circumstances prohibited my attendance of my mother's funeral, though I'm sure she would have encouraged me to make the same choice were she here. At least I'm able to handle matters of estate by post. If you would kindly send all relevant documents for my review, I would be grateful. _

_ If I may ask one more favor, please pass along information about my status to the staff at The Latin School. I don't expect to be able to attend classes after it re-opens, but plan to study independently so that I can take my final exams via correspondence. _

_ My father thought highly of you, Mr. Cole, and my memories of working with you at his firm during summers past are fond ones. I'm certain that you're keeping things running as smoothly as he did, and __am grateful for your dedication to maintaining what he achieved. I pray that you, your family, and all those at Masen & Associates are persevering in this blighted season._

_ Thank you for your assistance, and I look forward to your reply. I am including Dr. Cullen's telephone number so that you can reach me here expediently._

_Best Regards,_

_Edward A. Masen, Jr._

_ January 7th, 1919  
_

_Dear Aunt Sophie,_

_ Congratulations to you and Uncle Gerard! The news that I'm going to have another baby cousin was the best gift in the package you sent to me for Christmas. I'm sure Uncle Gerard is doing his best to contain his fervent wishes for a boy this time. That reminds me... you once said that if you did ever did have a son, you'd name him Egbert. I hope Uncle Gerard can talk you out of that._

_ Thank you for the new watch, also, and the cuff links. They're really grand, and I've already started wearing the watch daily. You always did spoil me. _

_ Have the schools re-opened in Boston yet? They haven't here, at least not the public schools. The Latin School announced it would open next week, but, in answer to your question, no, I won't be attending. It just wouldn't be the same. It feels like all I'd achieve by going back for the few remaining months is to ruin perfectly good memories. I'd like to remember school the way it was before all of this, so I've arranged to study for my final exams independently. _

_ It's for similar reasons that I've decided not to go back to living in our house on Magnolia. I know that you, of all people, will understand that. Can you imagine me kicking around that place all by myself? I'm going to keep it, though, and leave it furnished as is, maybe spend weekends there sometimes. I know my parents meant for me to have it someday. I may not be able to fulfill their wishes by living there (not for quite some time, at any rate) but at least I can keep it in our family. If you have occasion to visit Chicago, consider the place yours for as long as you like. _

_ Thank you for the invitation to stay with you in Boston. It would be terrific to see you all, but I'm afraid matters here are going to keep me occupied for the foreseeable future. _

_ That brings me to some good news. Dr. Cullen has made a full recovery, and is already going back to work, but not at St. Luke's. It looks like the flu's finally done ravaging Chicago, but it's still spreading out into the rural areas. In light of that, Dr. Cullen has decided to resign from the hospital and is making preparations to visit some of the smallest towns where there aren't any resident physicians. In the meantime, he's invited me to stay on here at his house while I study and and square away estate matters, and I'm gratefully taking him up on that offer. It's really quite peaceful here. _

_ It's afforded me time to think about what to do after graduation, as well. I know you shared mother's disapproval of my plans to join the Army (no hard feelings, by the way), so you'll be pleased to know that I'm no longer considering it. Before the war, I'd always assumed I would go to Northwestern, but __that has changed as well. I'm thinking about going to college out of state. I've never been away from Chicago much, and after all that's happened, the idea of getting away to new places is appealing. I've gotten together a short list of potential schools and am preparing to take entrance exams._

_ It's good to hear that you're all doing so well, and I hope you had pleasant holidays. Did Sally and Violet like what I sent? Mother had purchased the dolls, books and atlas for them back in September- always the early shopper. I was glad to pass them along in her stead. _

_ I look forward to more news. In the meantime, please know I'm thinking of you all._

_Love,_

_Your "favorite little suitor,"_

_Edward_

**Carlisle is** the most honest soul I've ever known, but he's also the best liar I've ever met.

He detested lying, but did it prodigiously. He had to.

Not that it takes much to manipulate a human being, mind you. We're disarmingly attractive creatures. Once I got over my crimson eyes, I had to admit that the transformation had done me a few favors. When I finally examined my appearance for longer than a moment or two, it was a bright winter morning just after New Year's Day. My mood was infinitely better than it had been twenty four hours previous, when I'd been mad with thirst.

I'd made decent progress the first couple of weeks, and then came a backwards slide. The bouts of thirst were getting worse, and Carlisle was getting concerned. He didn't need to drink anywhere near as much as I did- only once every ten days or so, which is normal for any vampire his age. But my need to hunt increased to three, and then four times a week, which was more than usual, even for newborns, according to Carlisle.

He led me out whenever I needed, almost always to deer. There were plenty in the area, and a single, full-grown deer was a large meal, but less satisfying every time. My body was screaming for something else, and as if the thirst wasn't enough, my emotions were often so raw that it was almost impossible to rein them in. Grief became black despair, anger inevitably turned to rage, pleasure into senseless euphoria. It was the jagged emotional landscape of the worst manic-depressive, and Carlisle patiently bore the full brunt of my volatility. His house wasn't as flexible, unfortunately. I acquired a fair number of construction skills in December.

So, that January weekend, after we repaired a series of holes that went through both floors and the roof, he decided it was time to nudge me along to the next step.

Instead of just leading me within scenting distance of pre-selected game and then letting me go like a deadly wind-up toy, he set me loose to really _hunt._ We left at dusk and ran northwest for nearly two hours, not slowing until there were no roads or signs of recent human presence within thirty miles in any direction. I knew he wasn't planning on hunting for himself on this trip, but I didn't know what he had planned for me until we stopped, at which point he told me to breathe and let my senses take me where they would. He didn't have to tell me twice.

I drank the icy air freely, lighting through an ever-changing panorama of forest, hills, plains and valleys, letting every instinct take me. I couldn't see or hear Carlisle, but sometimes his thoughts drifted in for a moment or two before disappearing again. He was following me just outside the perimeter of my senses, making sure no human was within range.

It was good to know he was there. I didn't have to worry about anything. I could take in all the delicious scents of the night, letting them flood into my body, which would follow without thought except to home in on the sweetest odors. I was a single-minded entity of pure instinct. The wind would bring something to my nose that smelled even better than the last thing, and before I knew it my body responded, changing course, and the hunt was renewed.

_This _was what I needed. I was experiencing the elusive freedom that had always beckoned beyond the doors of that basement. I _loved _hunting.

That night I'd scented, chased and caught my first lynx. A small meal, but, I discovered, much richer and more satisfying than Carlisle's favored white-tailed deer, and the hunt itself was a drastic improvement. I'd learned to drink cleanly by then, too. There were no more bloodbaths. After the meal, my body tingling and soothed, I ran again, but this time just for the pleasure of it.

On our way back the next morning, I sped over a frozen lake- Carlisle was a few miles behind me, content to let me indulge in my speed. But it was then that I glided to a stop, having caught sight of myself in the glassy ice.

I knelt on all fours and swept frost away from the surface, fascinated. The creature staring back at me was so miraculously crafted that it was hard to reconcile the image with myself. I recognized my same coppery hair and brows, my bone structure, the defined jaw, the set of the eyes- it was still me, but absolutely perfected. The flames of transformation had sculpted my body into an icy representation of the ideal human form.

I trilled gently, smiling at myself.

"Hello, my name is Edward Masen," I murmured at my reflection, imagining that I was speaking to a human. "Would you care to take a stroll with me this morning?"

My voice was mellifluous and hypnotic, as pleasing as a purr. If I so chose, I could charm a mortal into believing the sky was plaid. They would find the words "Edward Masen" to be the most enchanting they'd ever heard... and the last.

My attention was broken by Carlisle.

_Sorry to remind you, but you can't starve to death the way Narcissus did._

He'd caught up to me and had been watching from about twenty yards away. I scowled at the taunt, which made him chuckle. I growled, raising my eyebrow in a silent question. This could be fun. Carlisle growled back in delight, answering my challenge, and before he had a chance to so much as move an inch, I'd tackled him.

The three foot-thick ice sheet cracked underneath his back, the fissures spreading out like a spiderweb all around us. I was momentarily distracted, fascinated by a myriad of crystalline tones that rang through the splitting ice. He used it to his advantage, shoving me away. I flew back, twisting to land on my feet in a waist-high snow drift on the shore. Carlisle was crouched, ready for me, smirking.

_Come on, pretty boy. You can do better than that._

"_Pretty boy_? That's rich coming from you, blondie. You're as pretty as it gets!"

"You're stalling," he called out dismissively.

"Alright, you asked for it," I muttered with a fierce grin, charging out of the snow at him. He feinted out of the way, but I was already using the ice to pivot around and face him. Carlisle was on the shore in the same spot I'd just been in, still smirking.

_Right now you could beat every vampire older than you in any test of speed or strength. But it won't last. You can't rely on it. Learn to use your environment. _

With that, he grabbed the trunk of a towering white pine with one hand, and pushed. In a riot of splintering and cracks, the two hundred-foot giant groaned and started falling, but I was standing well clear of where it would land. _What the hell was the point of that?_ I wondered.

I looked derisively at Carlisle. "So you think I should've failed in an attempt to hit you with a tree? That's pathe-"

I couldn't finish the sentence. The tree landed, its midsection crashing onto the fissured ice where his back had been, and everything around that area disintegrated- including the place I was standing. I was swallowed up in a storm of massive chunks of ice and splintering tree, immediately plummeting into the lake. I sank like a stone for a few seconds, cursing myself for not having a quicker reaction. I could easily have kept from going into the water if I'd been paying attention to what that tree would do to the surface of the ice. But, no, I'd been too busy ready to laugh at Carlisle for having bad aim, which I should have realized was impossible. He'd hit exactly what he wanted to, damn it!

My first instinct was to swim up, burst out of the water and attack the first blond-haired creature I saw, but I fought it back.

_Use your environment._

I paused, treading within the vortexes of water to keep from going any deeper, watching as the pulverized surface of the lake danced in anarchy above. Tens of thousands of bubbles swirled around massive sections of ice and tree that teetered and scraped thunderously on the surface, jostling for position like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. A rain of bark, pine needles and jagged splinters drifted down all around me with shards of ice.

He had the advantage. I couldn't smell him from down here, couldn't see anything beyond the ice sheet above except kaleidoscopes of glassy light and blue morning sky. It would only take a split second to locate and target him once I emerged, but in that second he'd already be on me. Or maybe there would be more trees crashing down, or some other nifty surprise. There was virtually no way to get a jump on him.

I could only hear the diluted presence of his mind, ghosts of thoughts coming from no particular direction, like the ice and water was dispersing them, and what I _could_ glean from the mess was spoken in Hebrew.

I remembered how the ice had looked when I'd been gazing at my reflection before... had I been able to see anything _underneath_ the thick sheet? Yes... just the surface of the water, barely glimmering below. I hadn't been able to detect any odors except the faint whiff of fish and wet vegetation deep in the lake. The wind was virtually non-existent this morning. That, plus the barrier of the ice and water... he'd have to be close to sniff out my location. If I stayed shallow, he might be able to see me, smell me... but not if I was deep. And as I listened to the jostling chunks of ice settling, I realized my advantage.

I shot away from the broken section of ice, seeking the deepest place in the lake. Finding it, I crouched on the bottom and closed my eyes, waiting. It was a long time before I heard it.

Just a tiniest whisper of movement against the surface around the shattered section. He was trying to pick up my scent from where the ice was broken. The sound disappeared...

And then I finally heard them... feather-light footsteps on the ice above in a different place. Each step was more than a sound. They reverberated through the water, pulsing against me.

I opened my eyes. The icy layer far above shone like a frosted window, and I couldn't help but smile before shutting my eyes again. Sound was far more helpful. His footsteps were consistently farther away than when I first heard them. _Ha, _I thought smugly. _He can't find me._

All I had to do was just wait. The vibrations got more intense, one after another, even though I could tell he was treading so very lightly... there would be nothing but silence in the air where he was. But down here, I heard it all.

And then I felt it- he was directly above me. I opened my eyes and looked up. Sure enough, there was his shadow, rooted in the silhouette of two feet. I would have to be fast now. Crouching against the slime of the lakebed, I tensed, then launched, raising my fists to punch through the ice. Carlisle's shadow moved- almost in time, but not quite.

As soon as I felt the ice crashing against my knuckles, I opened my hands, reached out and clenched, grabbing his ankles. _I had him!_

I roared exultantly, flinging him down as soon as my feet found purchase on the frozen surface, and then pinned him fast. He didn't have a prayer of struggling free.

_He's a fast learner! _Carlisle exulted, chuckling, readying his next move. Then he looked up at me, and all humor instantly drained from his face.

"Edward, we ought to get back to the house. You need to get warmed up as soon as possible."

"Nice try," I crowed jubilantly, "but you can't distract me that easily. You and I both know we're impervious to cold."

"_Most_ of us is impervious to cold," he agreed. _But if this little wrestling match continues, you'll end up with an unwelcome casualty. _

Whatever he meant, he was sincere. I let go of his arms, furrowing my brow in concern.

Making a show of non-aggression, Carlisle reached to my head, behind my ear. I heard a tinkling _snap, _then watched as he displayed a minuscule pinch of my hair between his fingers.

I looked past him, down at my sparkling reflection in the ice. My hair was sticking up in crazy swaths, turning glassy and silver, having already started to freeze from being whipped around in the icy air as I'd wrestled Carlisle down. It was more than thirty degrees below zero. My hair would break into pieces if my head collided with anything solid.

I didn't need to rise as carefully as I did. "Okay, let's go."

We continued our run and I kept to his speed, never more grateful for my preternatural new agility. There was no such thing as slipping, falling, or bumping against something unintentionally.

_That was a good move back at the lake,_ Carlisle complimented me.

"Thanks. The tree was a pretty good move, too."

_Well, it worked under the circumstances. In a real fight, it would have been completely ineffective, _he admitted. _There were much more better means of getting the upper hand._

"Are you trying to say you took it easy on me, _pretty boy_?" I smirked.

He growled, disgruntled. _If I were you, I'd wait until my hair was thawed before teasing me again. _He reached out as if to ruffle my hair. With a panicked shout I burst ahead of him, speeding away from his laughter.

The change had, of course, done the same favors for Carlisle when it happened to him. He was slightly broader than I, but stood the exact same six foot, two inches, and cut an impressive figure. His skin was smooth and luminous. The deep gold of his eyes complemented his coloring, matching his hair, and he had a classic Grecian profile. His memory was full of gooey-eyed nurses and female patients whose heartbeats sped up as he approached.

But he didn't really need the aid of unnatural beauty to get people to believe what he needed them to. Deceit was an art he employed in a variety of ways in the weeks and months after changing me.

The decision to change me had been sudden; he'd acted without formulating any solid plan beforehand, which he wasn't used to. There were a few things that worked in his favor, though. The massive death toll wrought by the flu had made it difficult to document every person who succumbed, even within hospitals like St. Luke's. My empty bed would, at first, be attributed to my having died. It was unlikely that the staff would collectivize their memories and realize that no one had announced either my death or recovery.

After I'd drifted off into what would be my last slumber, he'd covered me with a sheet and taken me to the morgue... just another corpse. He faked the first symptoms of the flu so he could leave, removed my paperwork and then gathered me up for the dash out of Chicago, keeping effortlessly to shadowy rooftops until he was away.

Up until then, he'd used his remote country house primarily to unwind after hunting, and as a place to keep his possessions safe (including a Peerless touring car which was safely garaged a little ways from the house). He always traveled on foot in the city, and dwelt primarily in a spartan studio apartment just a few blocks away from St. Luke's, keen to be within hearing range of his beloved work while he had to be away from it, pretending to have human needs like sleep. He'd kept nothing there except a few changes of clothes and some library books. After taking me away, he returned to that apartment only once, several weeks later. He took his clothes, dropped his key into the building manager's mail slot along with a check that would more than cover what future rent he still owed on the lease, returned the library books, and that was that.

While I was busy burning, he'd been by my side plotting out one contingency plan after another. What to do if I left, if I stayed, if I wanted to leave my human life behind or keep any part of it.

It would have been easy enough to simply pretend that Edward Masen had died, and if Carlisle lived the nomadic, rootless existence that most vampires do, that's exactly what would have happened. But he had a place in human society from which I could maintain the appearance of having survived the flu.

"You have choices," he'd told me a couple days after my transformation. "If you decide to let go of your life as Edward Masen, that's alright. As it is, you'll have to stay away from humans for as long as it takes for your thirst to diminish into a manageable state. But even after that, anyone who knew you before will see the enhancements in your physical appearance and suspect such drastic differences might be unnatural. But you don't have to let go of your human life entirely if you don't want to. I can alter your paperwork to state that you recovered, that I released you from the hospital. No one will remember things well enough to question it."

I agreed readily, determined to hang on to every possible scrap of my human life. I couldn't have my family back, couldn't continue friendships. But I didn't have to _die_, and that was something. If nothing else, I could preserve the estate my parents had worked so hard for, and keep in touch with extended family. Still, though, it would be a mockery of life...

Perhaps it's a blessing that the memory of our human lives is so diminished.

My decision made, Carlisle's well-honed talent for deception came into play.

Only a few well-placed fibs were necessary to deflect interest in our sudden seclusion. A cover story was surprisingly easy to develop. The flu proved to be useful, albeit dark, ally. The proper documents were altered, letters sent, telephone calls placed. Once Carlisle "recovered," he went into Chicago to resign in person at St. Luke's, and even put in an appearance at Masen & Associates to drop off some estate paperwork on my behalf. When I'd spoken on the telephone with Mr. Cole, his voice was full of doubt and hesitation. It was obvious he was on the verge of scrutinizing things too closely, so Carlisle decided to meet with him, using the paperwork as an excuse. I saw the event in his mind later- Cole had been charmed completely, all his concerns about my unusual circumstances assuaged.

That bought us enough time to stay put for the rest of winter and spring, but then it would be time to move on. After that it would be too difficult to keep people who knew me at bay.

By the time he'd changed me, Carlisle had been living in Chicago for seven years. The longest he'd ever stayed in one place while living amongst humans was sixteen years, and the only reason he got away with it is because he was in Pennsylvania, and the Civil War was being waged during the latter five years of his stay there. Doctors were desperately needed everywhere, even ones that didn't seem to age. It wasn't a time to look gift horses in the mouth.

But any longer than ten years in one place was normally pushing it. After that, not even the smoothest fibbing could explain away his agelessness, why he remained uninterested in marriage and family (though there was never shortage of gossip on that score), why he always stayed on night shifts and declined advancement despite his superior skills. Every time he moved to a new place he reset his age to mid-twenties, which meant he usually had to pretend to be fresh out of medical school.

He hated uprooting so often. It was a bitter reminder that, despite being able to blend in so well with humanity, Carlisle could never truly be part of it. He would always be a furtive monster, hiding in plain sight.

Except now I was anxious to get out into view with him. That first real hunt had been truly pivotal. After that, my need to hunt became less frequent, and the bouts of bloodlust got easier to get through. Every one was just a little less intense than the last. By the third week of January, I could handle human scents lingering on inanimate objects without more than irritating discomfort. Necessity compelled the tolerance- I couldn't keep reading my mail only through Carlisle's mind. And it was okay. The first whiff was always a challenge, no doubt. The fire would rake my throat, an insistent burn... but it wasn't unmanageable. Carlisle drove to my house on Magnolia three times in February, bringing back clothes, my baseball bat and glove, mementos... I wanted more exposure to people. I wanted to be a part of life again.

But Carlisle refused. It was like running into a brick wall at human speed.

"But the scent, I'm okay with it now," I argued.

"That's a _residual_ scent you're accustomed to, Edward. Being in their presence is another matter. Even if you don't breathe- which you'll have to do if you speak to anybody- the compulsion to drink is overwhelming. You'll hear their heartbeats and the flow of their blood, see their veins coursing with it. The scent is _exponentially_ stronger, snd if someone around you has a fresh cut, and you get a whiff of it..." he drifted off, shaking his head.

"What if I worked on building up a tolerance?"

"Yes, of course. That's what I have in mind, but-"

"More quickly than that," I interrupted. I'd seen the steps of his plan unfolding in his mind, and it was so ridiculously cautious. He'd have me advancing at a snail's pace. "Bring things that have _recently_ been worn or touched. And I want exposure to a live person within two weeks, not eight months."

_That's preposterous! You'd kill them._

"You didn't. You were transformed while human beings were all around you. You fled London, through the countryside- all of it teeming with people. You didn't harm anyone."

"That was different."

"Not _that_ different. You may have been bent on self-destruction, but your thirst was no less than mine. It was _worse._ It was a long time before you attacked that herd of deer. If anything, I'm in a better position to deal with it than you ever were. I'll be prepared for the scent. We'll even go hunting right before, so I'll be full. And you'll be there if anything goes wrong. Please, just let me try."

_But the cost of your potential failure in this little experiment is a life. Don't you un-_

"Yes, I understand that! But if I wasn't confident that I could resist, I wouldn't ask this of you."

His jaw clenched. _Ah, the hubris of the young. _"Okay," he muttered. "I'll get you used to fresher scents. But I won't arrange for you to be that close to a live person in two weeks. It's out of the question."

"The end of March, then."

"July."

"April?"

He shook his head.

"May," I offered insistently.

He narrowed his eyes. "Alright. Come May, I'll arrange for the mail to be delivered here instead of the post office. The postal carrier will come here once a day, and you and I will _both_ be present when he comes. During the first week, you won't breathe when he's within a two-mile radius of this place. You'll just acclimate to the sounds, the sights. After that, you can work on the scent. But that's it until June." I grinned in triumph, but then he added, "I reserve the right to change my mind if anything happens to make me think you're not ready. And there's no chance I'm letting you go near a city until July."

"Fair enough," I agreed.

Content with our bargain, Carlisle went back to the small pile letters on his desk and opened the one on top. While he read it, I tried to imagine what going into Chicago would be like, what kind of thirst it might trigger... it scared me, but I was equally curious at the same time.

My pondering ceased as I noticed an odd quiet in my mind, and realized that all the murmurs of Carlisle's thought had trickled into silence as he finished reading the letter he'd just opened. He'd turned into the proverbial statue, frozen with the paper in his hand. Sometimes he froze for a brief moment or two in the process of reaching a new idea, but always reanimated quickly. But not this time. My brow furrowed as I waited, and waited...

And then finally something came through, and it was _strong_, laced with remorse, disbelief and apprehension all at once.

_I shouldn't have written to him about Edward... what have I done...?_

I glanced at the opened envelope on the desk. The letter had come from Volterra, Italy.

*****

_Author's Note: Thank you for reading, everyone, and to my subscribers- thank you for hanging in there while the story went on hiatus. This chapter was a screaming bitch to wrestle into place, and I'm still not entirely happy with it. However, it's been holding up the rest of the story, so I'm letting it go. _


	10. The Arrow and the Song, Part I

Chapter 9 - The Arrow and the Song, Part I

I shot an arrow into the air,  
It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
For so swiftly it flew, the sight  
Could not follow in its flight

I breathed a song into the air,  
It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
For who has sight so keen and strong  
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak,  
I found the arrow still unbroke;  
And the song, from beginning to end,  
I found again in the heart of a friend.

_- The Arrow and the Song_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

_September 5, 1919 - Milwaukee, WI_

**The Arrow**

_Just take it easy, _I thought. Casual strides, arms relaxed, swinging just a bit. The torturously slow pace wouldn't have required any concentration if it wasn't for the river of thoughts gushing all around me.

_- Edward... Edward..._

I paused, looking around. That wasn't Carlisle. Who else was thinking about me? Did someone recognize me? The voice behind the thought was old, female... people drifted past, all around, their heartbeats a tempting distraction, but I quickly spotted the elderly woman my name was coming from. She was dressed in black, seated in a luncheonette across the street, staring at an empty chair on the other side of the table. A tea sandwich sat untouched in front of her. The face she was thinking of was bespectacled, white-bearded, with deep smile lines crinkled around his eyes. Her small frame shifted with a sigh.

_Oh, Edward, I miss you so, especially on Saturdays. _

Oh. A widow. A different Edward.

That was happening often, and I was still learning to ignore it. After all, no one here in Milwaukee would have reason to recognize me. I'd never realized how common my name was until hearing it so often in human thoughts. Everyone knew an Edward or two.

They didn't know any Edwards _like_ me, though. That much I was sure of.

The old woman's gaze traveled away from the empty chair to the window next to her, and she noticed me. _Is that young man staring at me? There's something very odd about him._

That spurred me on, and I looked away quickly, letting her voice fade into the noisome clamor of mental energy all around.

Carlisle had been right. It wasn't just his thoughts I could hear.

I heard them _all._

Like the man about a half block away who was obviously worried about something, patting his pockets repeatedly. As he got closer, his voice emerged from the background chatter.

_- Where's my watch? Oh, no. I left it at Maudie's. She'll be gone to the dress shop by now... no time to go ask her for the key and get into her apartment. Shit. I'm probably covered in the stink of that perfume she bathes in, and no watch to boot? Sheila's going to notice... I've got some fast talking to do when I get home... holy hell, that kid's creepy..._

Even children-

_- I can't wait 'til Daddy gets home tomorrow and sees what George did to my doll. It's about time he got a whipping! Wow, that man's really creepy looking..._

_Really? _I wondered. Why was everyone thinking that about me?

_- Jimmy's going to kill himself for not coming to that game. Between the two of us, we could've mopped up the whole table. Still, twenty bucks is nothing to sneeze at, and I know just how to spend it. Dinner and dancing at Benson's, maybe rent a boat and do a little paddling on the lake with some champagne, if it doesn't rain... after the time I show Laura tonight, those gams of hers will part for me like the Red Sea for Moses... whoa, what's wrong with that kid? Something's..._

_...off about that boy. He's as handsome as they come, but... I don't know what it is. I don't like it, though. _

"Come along," the elegantly-dressed woman whispered to her small daughter, shepherding the tyke off the sidewalk. "We're going to walk on the other side of the street for a little while."

The child made no fuss about deviating from their regular path, having had the same uneasy feeling upon noticing me.

I didn't get it. My irises had finally taken on a near-complete gold in recent weeks - no human could possibly notice their red-tinted fringes unless they stood nose-to-nose with me. I was dressed well in a pressed new suit. My oxfords were polished and my hair was combed back neatly under a new hat. I was studiously keeping to an easy gait with my hands out of my pockets. I was used to people automatically keeping a little extra distance from me as they passed by, just out of instinct. But today, when someone's gaze fell on me, I made a point to smile or nod... and they always just looked away with a small frown and an uncomfortable thought, the key word almost always being "creepy."

They were supposed to be _drawn_ to me when I turned on the charm, not _repelled._ And yet I couldn't even blend in. Why wasn't this working?

Bending my head down so no one would see my lips moving, I murmured. "They're still spooked. What am I doing wrong?"

No one could have heard me speak so softly, so quickly. No one mortal, that is. But Carlisle was around as always, watching from some unknown perch; hidden, because today I had a task to perform. I had to home in on his mental signature, find his "voice" in the crowd. And I had to do it while blending in smoothly with the inhabitants of the busy streets of downtown Milwaukee on a Saturday.

Granted, finding Carlisle wasn't difficult at all. This wasn't the first time I'd performed this little assignment. But there were so many ways to mess up when it came to everything else- walking too quickly, lifting something that should've been too heavy, standing too still, forgetting to blink, reacting to something that should've been too far away to see or hear. I was finally getting to the point that my movements looked ordinary without much concentration, and yet this reaction I kept getting today- _creepy_?

_It's the smile, _he replied. _Try it again, but this time look at yourself when you do.  
_  
Veering off the busy sidewalk, I started to cross the street in the northwest direction his thoughts had come from. A pretty brunette around my age was standing on the other side of the street, taking a moment to look in her purse for some perfume, and noticed me as I strolled towards her. The sight of me interrupted her contemplation about how bad motor exhaust smelled, and as I met her gaze, I harnessed her mind's eye to observe myself smile...

So that's what he meant.

The grin was toothy and distorted... obscenely eager. No wonder they thought I looked like an escapee from the loony bin.

The girl started to react the same way everyone else had, but I gentled my smile into a soft, crooked curve before she could look away, cocking my head just so, and she froze.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that's the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on! I hope I don't have any watercress from lunch stuck in my teeth... I wonder what his name is...?_

Bingo! We have a winner.

Inclining my head in her direction, I pinched the brim of my hat as I stepped up onto the curb, and her appetizingly wet heartbeat sped up.

"Good afternoon, Miss," I said to her.

Her thoughts fizzled into stunned admiration, so I smiled a little wider- and it looked more natural this time. Before she could find her voice and reply, I ambled on without pause. Her imagination kicked in as she watched me walk away-

_I was pulling her into a passionate embrace, whispering lustily in her ear._

"_You're so beautiful, Chloe. I must have you this very minute."_  
_  
She ran her hands up my chest, then over my shoulders and into my hair. We kissed fervently, and when I pressed my midsection against hers, she could feel my-_

Abandoning her hormone-driven thoughts, I quickened my pace just a bit, amused. One of the more surprising things I'd discovered about human thoughts was how frequently, and graphically, females dwelt on sex. All the time I spent growing up, told that women didn't think about those things, that they were too refined and delicate to entertain such base urges... what a colossal lie! It was remarkable, really, that so many fooled themselves into believing it. It was a more successful myth than Santa Claus.

I wondered what Chloe's reaction would have been had she actually touched my icy skin. How quickly would her fantasies turn cold once she knew that my lust was only for the velvety blood that colored her cheeks when she blushed? That my only overwhelming urge was to sink my teeth into the veins that I could see pulsing beneath the ridiculously fragile membrane of her skin?

Carlisle's voice came through again.

_Well? Did it make a difference?_

"You could say that," I muttered, smirking.

At that point, my store of air ran out, and I braced myself. No sense in putting it off. I pocketed my hands and, as I took a deep breath, my fists clenched into tight balls. The fire raked my throat, a sharp ache twisting in my gut. Everything in my field of vision was suddenly tinged in red, each source of human blood pulsing. The sound of their heartbeats thumped louder, a tantalizing symphony that infused my inner being with a life of its own. I tightened my throat, choking off the heady scent so thick that it left a spectral flavor on my tongue... a taste of what could be. I fought to regulate my senses, to shut it out...

Even as he hid, I knew Carlisle kept me within his view, unwilling to risk more lives than absolutely necessary. The first few times he'd dared to be far enough away that he wouldn't have been able to stop it if my control snapped and I went for someone, his thoughts were so damned anxiety-ridden that it made things worse. Thank God, he was much more relaxed these days, but there was always an undertone of vigilant concern, and for good reason.

I could breathe frequently now, as long as no one was bleeding, but it wasn't easy, especially in moments like this.

I did away with the smile and avoided eye contact like I was used to, concentrating on making sure my pace was normal. As people passed, I battled the screaming urge to grab one of them and drain them of every drop. Without the manic grin, at least no one was thinking "creepy" when they saw me, but they still sensed danger. It was their subconscious that spoke to them... _stay away from him. _They gave me a berth of a few feet on every side, as if there was an invisible shield around me that kept everyone at arm's length.

Now I knew just how easy it was to turn that around. All it took was the right kind of gaze and smile, a few purred words. I fought my own imagination, which was eagerly reminding me that, at this very moment, I could have already lured Chloe into some nook out of view... that she could, indeed, be in my embrace, and I could have my fill. The thirst roared like an incinerator inside me...

I needed to get off the street immediately.

"Excuse me for a moment," I muttered in Carlisle's direction, turning into a tavern. The place was sparsely populated at this time of day, laden with tobacco smoke and the scent of beer and liquor that had spilled, absorbing into every square foot of the rough-hewn floor over the years.

_What's wrong? Are you alright?_

"I will be. I just had to get off the street... too many of them."

I made a beeline for the bar and sat down at the end, several stools away from a trio of men who were evidently regulars. I ignored their stares, fighting to calm myself.

_Should I join you? _Carlisle asked.

"May as well. I know you're on the roof of the bank, anyway."

_Very good._

One of the men at the bar wondered if he'd really seen my lips moving, or if he was just a little more crocked than he thought. I chastised myself for not being more careful as a bartender with a handlebar mustache made his way over.

_- Should I ask if he's eighteen? Nah, not much point in that anymore. Evidently none of us is old enough to have a drink these days... god-damned busybodies..._

"What'll you have, sonny?" he asked me.

"Schlitz."

With a nod, he took a frosted mug out of an ancient icebox and filled it from a keg barrel, leaving a frothy cloud of foam on top. I put a few coins on the bar.

_Just don't pour it in the lake,_ he thought bitterly, setting the beer in front me.

I'd been hearing constantly about that from various minds around me. I'd _smelled_ it, for that matter. A bunch of Chicagoans had emptied barrel after barrel of beer into Lake Michigan, celebrating the Volstead Act, and imitators were pouring beer and whiskey into lakes and rivers all over the region now. Every time Carlisle and I happened across a sizable body of water, we could smell traces of the stuff. Come January, selling, transporting and manufacturing alcoholic beverages would become officially illegal. The bartender was just about out of a job.

He wasn't the only one put out by recent developments. Despite the cheery peacetime rag that rolled out of the piano, the mood in the place was funereal. Very soon, it would close its doors for good, along with a significant portion of Milwaukee's economy, and a tap that flowed with something they considered perfectly natural to consume would be shut off.

I could commiserate. The bar's hemmed-in atmosphere, though crowded with other scents, didn't do much to disguise the tempting elixir that gushed within its patrons. I swallowed back a mouthful of venom, staring morosely at the beer in front of me. To distract myself, I tried to remember if I ever drank any while I was human, but nothing came up. There were a few vague memories of wine at holiday dinners, champagne on New Year's Eve. There was one time, when I was sixteen, when my father and I had been on a weekend fishing trip, and he'd splashed a little whiskey into my cup after securing a promise from me that I'd never tell my mother. No beer, though.

Carlisle deliberately let the stool scrape against the floor when he pulled it out to sit down, putting himself between me and the men down the bar. I frowned at him.

"That isn't necessary."

"You're probably right," he said, looking around the place with a wry grin. _You're doing so well... you have no idea. _His chest swelled in satisfaction as he took his next breath. I had to smirk at that. It was odd that he had these little moments of being _proud_ of me, especially when I was so close to slipping.

The bartender caught his eye, asking a silent question. "Nothing for me, thanks," Carlisle responded, and then noticed my hundred-mile stare at the beer in front of me.

"Are you really going to drink that?"

"I'm considering it."

He chuckled. _By all means, go right ahead. Just don't make a spectacle of yourself with your reaction._

I hadn't tried consuming human food or drink yet. The scents were no longer appetizing, and for good reason- my body couldn't digest any of it. I'd seen times in Carlisle's memory when he'd been in human company socially, unable to get away with merely shifting food around on his plate to create the illusion of eating, or compelled to take a drink after someone proposed a toast- how disgusting every bite and sip was, choking it out later...

My throat was blistering.

_Oh, hell with it, _I decided. _At least I'll be able to say I tried it, and if it's that__ awful, then maybe it'll be an effective distraction._

I picked up the mug and guzzled its entire contents, determined to ignore the revolting flavor. Defeating a gag, I let the beer pour down my throat, only to feel it pooling in my stomach like liquefied cement. For the first time since being turned, I felt ill. This was beyond disgusting. It was _vile._

Carlisle's posture tensed in warning. _Compose yourself, Edward_.

I looked at myself through his mind- I was frozen, the empty mug still in my hand, my face contorted as though I'd smelled a rotten egg in the vicinity. I was right about one thing, at least- human blood wasn't on my mind anymore. My body screamed only to be rid of the horrid stuff I'd just inflicted upon it.

Thirty seconds later, we were both in the alley off the side of the bar, Carlisle standing by while I expelled it into a trash bin. I heard reproving thoughts from passers-by who caught sight of us from the sidewalk...

- _It's not even one in the afternoon yet. For shame!_

_- Someone can't hold their liquor._

_- Thank goodness sights like that will soon be a thing of the past._

When the last of the beer was gone, I took a deep breath... the fire was back immediately, but dulled at least.

_- Had enough of town for the day?_

I answered Carlisle with a quick nod. He was chuckling when we turned out of the alley back onto the street, heading for the park where we usually left the Peerless.

"It's not _that_ funny," I grumbled.

He was still smiling in amusement, but at least his thoughts were contrite. _My apologies. By all rights, you should be able to enjoy these things like everyone else, especially at your age. I'm sorry you can't._

"I didn't think it would be _that _awful."

"We all find out firsthand sooner or later. I don't know a single one of our kind who hasn't tried human consumables at some point."

"Did you mean it earlier? I'm really doing well?"

"Yes, especially considering how much more you have to sort through than the rest of us." He glanced around with a confounded shake of his head. "It must be quite a thing, to hear so much."

_Quite a thing, indeed_, I thought bitterly, at that precise moment trying to ignore a rather loud "voice" coming from a third floor apartment on the other side of the street.

_- So help me God, if he comes back here saying he lost the rent money, I'll kill him. I'll kill him! I mean it, God damn it, I'm so sick of this!_

It didn't take much examination of her thoughts to know the woman wouldn't actually kill her husband. But she still entertained the fantasy of putting rat poison in the sugar bowl, and watching the next day as he spooned it into his morning coffee. I shoved away from her shrill frustration, letting it fade into background, giving wider space to Carlisle's mind instead. Always a port in the storm.

"Most of the time I just wish I could shut it off," I grumbled.

Carlisle smirked. _Now there's something you'd never hear from Aro._

A twinge of apprehension surfaced at the mention of the ancient vampire. I was also a little surprised Carlisle had thought it freely, without disguise. Ever since that afternoon in late February, he'd studiously avoided thinking about anything or anyone associated with our impending visitors, and when he _did_ think about it, it was hidden beneath a recitation of _Paradise Lost_. I'd learned fairly quickly that it was no use pressing him on the subject, so I tried not to think about it. Fortunately, days like this took my mind off it.

We were only two blocks away from the park when I heard something familiar-

_crack!_

Laughter and shouts followed, and then another _crack!_

I once loved that sound, and still responded to it with longing. When I'd heard it last week, a deluge of memories had come back...Weeghman Park and the Chi-Feds, the Cubs...street games in my neighborhood. It was the sound of solid ash wood, cracking against a baseball.

Carlisle glanced at me. _They're back this week._

I smirked, nodding slightly. Yes, they were. The first time we'd come into town and picked out that parking spot, I'd noted how ideal the park would be to play in. Almost two full acres of lush green lawn, mostly bordered by towering maples and poplars. It was the perfect place for baseball, and I wasn't alone in that assessment. There had been a game underway when we'd journeyed back to the car last Saturday- a full eighteen players. They were pretty good, too, considering they were just a bunch of neighborhood guys getting together for a series of summer games. They took it seriously, though. Now, a week later, it sounded like they were back, doing some warm-ups.

_Would you like to watch again?_

I tried shrugging it off. "We can leave. It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure? Last week was interesting. I never understood the draw before, but the way you explained it, I'm beginning to understand why it's so popular."

"Really?"

_Yes. I'd enjoy watching if you'd like to stay.  
_  
Carlisle didn't attend sporting events very often, and had seen so many sports fads come and go. Baseball was just another human pastime to him, something he couldn't quite relate to, as much as he wanted to. But it had been a huge part of my life, not so long ago... The previous week, he'd been humoring me at first when I'd asked to stay, to watch, but that had changed as the afternoon wore on and I'd explained all the intricacies of the game. As the ninth inning finished, he'd actually been a little disappointed it was over with.

I considered his offer as we rounded one last corner and the park came into view across the street, the car parked on the curb. A bunch of players were in the outfield, throwing, while several batters were lined up to grease up their joints. It looked like we might be in for another decent game today. The rain was going to hold off until evening.

One wiry fellow stepped up to a home plate fashioned out of a barrel cap, ready to swing. The pitcher threw a fairly straight fastball, but as soon as the batter swung, he regretted it.

_- Foul, _he grumbled internally.

He was right. The ball glanced off the barrel, careening into a high, foul hook to the far right. I instantly calculated its trajectory- it was on its way to slice through a hole in the foliage between two poplars and then smash right into the windshield of Carlisle's Peerless. Carlisle saw where the ball was headed, too, and was already thinking about stopping on our way out of town to put in an order for some new glass, and then he saw me-

_Edward, wait- no!  
_  
But I was already on the move. The thoughts of every human around were suddenly focused in my direction as I sprinted. My pace was deliberately well within the range of human capability, and felt ridiculously slow, but it still looked like an incredible burst of speed to them.

_- Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit! Not the windshield!_

At last. The batter had finally spotted where his errant ball was going. Other minds were reaching the same conclusion simultaneously, putting it together with where I was headed.

_- He'll never catch it._

_- Ooo, I'm glad I'm not in Jimmy's shoes right now. That's one spendy piece of glass his ball is about to pulverize._

I was almost across the street, resisting the urge to simply launch myself between the canopies of those two trees and catch the ball in mid-air. I couldn't just halt by the car and reach out my hand to catch it, either- a human running at the velocity I was wouldn't be able to slow to stillness that abruptly. So I leapt up just enough for my feet to leave the ground, twisting so my back glided harmlessly across the hood of the car just as the ball landed in my ready hands, and then slid off into standing position on the other side, absorbing the inertia with ease. The park erupted with stunned thoughts, murmurs and low whistles from the players and bystanders alike.

"Did you see that?"

_- That was smooth... _

"Good save!"

_- Who is that kid?_

"Great catch, son!"

_- That had to sting. He isn't even wearing a glove..._

Oh, right. I grimaced just a bit and shook my left hand as though it was mildly stung, looking at Carlisle, who was strolling up with a smirk. He plucked my hat from the hood of the car, where it had fallen off me, and set it on the backseat of the unharmed Peerless.

_That was excellent, Edward. Extraordinary, but human. And I don't have to go through the rigmarole of replacing the windshield. Thank you._

I grinned in sheer delight. I hadn't had to think much at all about executing the whole thing at human speed. It had been... well, easy.

The batter called out. "Sorry I almost hit your car!"

Carlisle waved his hand as if to say the apology wasn't necessary, and the practicing pitcher raised his glove, punching it to signal me. I threw the ball back to him- a little faster than I should have, but still nothing beyond believability. A small dust cloud burst from his glove as he caught it.

_Throws as good as he catches, _he thought, at same time shouting thanks to me.

I nodded, leaning against the car as Carlisle joined me, driving gloves in hand.

_I take it you'd like to watch a while?_

"You sure you don't mind?" I asked.

"Of course not."

"Hey!"

We looked back to the park to see the pitcher jogging up to us. I called up the memory of last week's game... he was the one everyone called Harry. He was fast for a human, not the best swing, but a good pitcher, and his team's unofficial captain.

"Hey," he said again, stopping in front us with a welcoming smile. "That was a hell of a catch." _Kinda pale, isn't he? Both of them. And funny-looking eyes. I wonder if they're brothers. _

"Thanks."

"Well, our team's short by one today, and I was wondering, if you're not in a hurry to get somewhere... do you wanna play?"

I glanced at the field- there _were _only seventeen players this week. Several of them had noticed Harry talking to us, and, guessing his purpose, had paused practicing, watching with hopeful thoughts.

_- It would be great if he said yes._

_- If he's even half as good as that move he just made, we're golden._

It was so tempting to say yes. To play ball again, just for a few minutes even... was it possible? I took stock for a moment. The thirst was presently under firm control. Confining myself to human movements would be a drag, but worth it. And reading their thoughts... I'd know every move they were going to make before they made it. It would take effort to play fair, but I could do it. _I_ _could do it. _

I looked anxiously over at Carlisle. He was gazing at me, his eyes flickering with indecision. Multiple scenarios flashed through his mind, each one awful: someone would skin their arm or hand, blood pebbling out of the wound as I caught its scent, my eyes turning black with mindless thirst... I'd run too fast... swing too hard, the bat splintering apart when it connected with the ball, or the ball itself disintegrating... and then countering images came through... the catch I'd executed at human speed... all the little accomplishments before it... a smile broke across his face.

_Go ahead. I think you're ready._

Grinning, I looked back at Harry. "Got an extra glove?"

"I think we can scare one up." He grinned in return, then turned around to call to the others. "Hey, Aaron! Your brother's glove still in your truck?"

I took off my tie and jacket, unfastening my cufflinks to roll up my sleeves, getting ready to take the field while Harry hashed out the glove situation. Carlisle pocketed my cufflinks for me while I set the rest of my things in the backseat with my hat.

"Wish I was dressed a little more appropriately," I muttered to him, imagining the impending damage to my white shirt and new trousers.

"They're just clothes. If they get ruined, they get ruined. Just enjoy yourself. " _And be so very careful. Stop immediately if you feel any danger of losing control._

"I will."

"Our shortstop's getting one for you," Harry said, turning back to us with an eager smile. "Ready?"

I nodded, and then left Carlisle's side, trotting out onto the field. Harry reached his right hand over to me as we moved along.

"Glad to have you. Harold James, but everyone calls me Harry."

I flashed a wary glance at his hand. Another test. I hadn't actually _touched _a human yet. This was no doorknob or stopper chain. There were no replacement hands for this frail human. I beat down my apprehension... _it's just a handshake, just a handshake..._

"Edward Masen, but no one calls me Eddie." I chuckled, taking his hand as gently as possible. I managed to keep my smile in place despite the blood I felt pulsing just beneath the blazing heat of his skin. I fought the impulse to crush my hand around that sensation and my breath caught in my burning throat, and I wondered if this experience was going to be more torture than leisure. But I swallowed back the venom, releasing his hand immediately, waiting to find out just how human my shake might have passed for.

_- Goddamn, his hand is _cold_. No one could accuse him of having a weak handshake, that's for sure. I bet he can really throw. _

"No kidding? The guy we're missing is named Edward, too."

I swallowed a groan. "Really? What a coincidence."

"What about your friend back there? Does he play?" he asked.

"That's my brother, but, no, baseball's not his game. He likes rugby better." I grinned back over my shoulder... Carlisle's eyebrow was raised, and he was chuckling. _Rugby? _

Harry's team assembled near home plate to meet me as we approached, and when we got there I kept back a little and put my hands in my pockets, hoping my body language would discourage a round of handshakes during the introductions. Fortunately, it worked. Unfortunately, intros were wasted on me, because I already knew everyone's names, and much more. I knew that my team called themselves the Eastside River Rats, and the other was dubbed the Southside Sluggers, and that both teams met up at this park every Saturday, weather permitting. I knew that everyone was watching the skies, thinking it might rain any minute, but my sense of smell told me they didn't have anything to worry about. I knew that Harry was twenty, and that the missing Edward he spoke of was one of his next door neighbors, who'd had to beg off because his sister was getting married today. I knew their third baseman, called Finny (for his surname, Finnegan) was weak in the field but strong at bat, and that the first baseman, Albert, hated me already. I knew that the best player on either team was our shortstop, Aaron, a sandy-haired sixteen year-old whom everyone thought was destined to go pro, and I agreed with them.

Still, I did a decent job of looking clueless. I hoped.

"What position do you usually play?" Aaron asked, handing me a glove.

"Center field," I lied. I distinctly remembered playing shortstop, but I knew their missing player was the center, and I was also trying to exercise caution. This was going to be challenging enough, and shortstop just had too much potential for contact. The more space between me and these mortals, the better.

I turned the glove over in admiration as I thanked Aaron for it. It was worn to creased softness, permeated by the scents of grass and oiled leather... so much like my own. I slid it on carefully, studiously ignoring the most powerful scent, that of its owner, Aaron's older brother, who didn't leave the house much since coming back from the war.

"How's your swing?" Harry asked.

"Not bad, but a little wild sometimes," I replied.

"I believe it," he chuckled.

He went on to give me the run-down on the other team, sharing his insight on the strengths and weaknesses of the different players. It was too bad I already knew about everything he told me, and more.

The River Rats were first to bat, and by the time Harry had finished up working me into the batting order, the Sluggers were done with their warm-ups and taking position. Their pitcher, a tall, lanky kid everyone called Beanpole, was good competition for Harry, but arrogant. Their catcher had long ago given up on trying to signal him with tips, because he always ignored them. He eyed me warily when he saw my number four position in the order.

_So Harry's got him cleaning up, huh? Well, we'll just see about that._

Beanpole fancied himself a painter, able to pitch inside the very edge of the strike zone with precision, but grossly overconfident. Most of the time, his "precision" pitches fell outside the zone, but they looked fairly close, so a lot of them got swung at.

Our lead-off hitter was Jimmy, who wisely refrained from swinging at Beanpole's first two pitches, both of which were aimed to be just on the inside, but missed, no good. But the third one Jimmy went for, sending up a slow, high-fly ball to the right again- almost another foul- but it was in, and the right fielder caught it with no real effort.

Jimmy chastised himself, disappointed. His average had gotten worse all summer, and he didn't understand why.

Albert, the one who already had a grudge against me, came up next, bearing a three-ton chip on his shoulder.

_- I always bring it home, but do they see that? Hell, no. But along comes this kid who polishes a car with his ass, and they fall all over him. Assholes._

I snorted out a chuckle, which I quickly covered as a slight cough.

_- What's so funny?_

Carlisle was watching from the side, still leaning on the car.

I scanned the various thoughts all around to make sure no one was particularly focused on me at the moment, and then passed on Albert's little commentary to Carlisle. It was handy, being able to speak with him comfortably without anyone being able to hear.

He choked back a chuckle of his own, clearing his throat. Then he leaned back a little, glancing sidelong at the hood of the Peerless.

_- Well, it _is _a little shinier..._

I laughed low and, shaking my head, turned to watch as Albert readied his swing. He was coiled into an exaggerated posture, focused on how he thought it would look instead of how comfortable he actually was with it. He would've been better off with a more relaxed stance- his center of gravity was way off, and he was planning on swinging hard at the first thing that came his way. Beanpole spotted his tense posture, ready to take full advantage of it.

This is where it got difficult not to say anything, but I just watched as Beanpole chucked a palmball. Albert swung early and way too fast. Strike.

Another centered pitch, a change-up... another strike.

His thoughts twisted in frustration, Albert's posture tightened even more. But, luckily, Beanpole made a mistake this time. Instead of throwing a cutter, as he intended, the ball ended up dead center and Albert smacked it straight into left field, clearing the shortstop with ease. He got to second base before the play was over and spit triumphantly, glancing at me.

_- I'd like to see paleface top that!_

As amusing as that was, considering just what I was capable of, I couldn't laugh at Albert this time. As Finny stepped up to bat ahead of me, anxiety crept up on me over exactly how I should handle my turn. I didn't want to mess this up. It didn't even matter that I could hear exactly what Beanpole was planning to throw. Carlisle's vision of me accidentally smashing either the bat or ball to pieces was no exaggeration. It would be all too easy. I'd have to exercise extreme control just to swing gently enough so that the ball stayed in the park. Would I have that much control? After all, I thought I'd shaken Harry's hand so lightly, but it had felt like an iron grip to him, and I hadn't even handled a bat since... I didn't remember when. My glove and ball had been sitting around unused, mere pieces of nostalgia, since getting them from the Magnolia house.

I was getting nervous about it, watching Finny ignore the first pitch- too low. He had a good eye, and Beanpole knew it. He was just testing the waters with the first one, trying to catch Finny off-guard. Realizing Finny wasn't going for it, he attempted at a curveball on the next try, but it also went too low, this time on accident, and still no swing from my teammate.

The pitcher took his time before trying again, holding back his wind-up...waiting for Finny to get agitated or look away. No dice. When he went for a change-up, Finny's swing was dead-on. It was a good, fast, slap-hit, but their center fielded it efficiently. Still, Finny made it to first and Albert to third, leaving me poised to bring home a score.

Aaron, who was up after me, slapped me on the shoulder, he and the rest of the team urging me on.

"Show 'em what's what, Masen."

"Go get 'em."

I'd already decided what I was going to do.

Beanpole sized me up as I went through the motions of preparation... rotating my arm as if to loosen my joints, getting into position, twisting my grip lightly around the delicate wood. It didn't even matter what he was going to throw, so I wasn't paying particular attention when he decided to try a silder. A second after he released it, I started my swing at a painfully slow speed, gauging the how the bat sliced through the air, the almost non-existent weight of it, letting the swing follow through over my shoulder as the ball sailed under it.

Strike one.

The absence of surprise in everyone's thoughts was a relief. It had looked like an entirely average, mortal swing- and now I had a feel for the bat.

_I just knew it. _The thought came from third base- Albert. _He's going to screw it all up. He missed that by a mile! _

My other teammates were withholding judgment, still offering hoots of encouragement.

_- Getting a feel for it?_ Carlisle's voice came through.

I looked down, stubbing my foot in the grass as if anchoring my stance, and nodded.

_- Good idea._

Again, no need to pay attention to what the pitcher was planning to do. Beanpole threw low, as fast as he could, but it was a spinner. I watched the ball rotating slowly in the air, seeming to take forever before it came within hitting distance. When it did, I swung at the same rate I had before, but this time aiming so the ball glanced off the top of the barrel, using its rotation to direct it... letting the vibration of the impact tell me just how dense the ball was, how much harder it could be hit next time... and popping it up into a high, right foul much like the one that almost hit the car earlier. As intended, however, it landed well inside the park.

Strike two.

My teammates were a little quieter this time, doubt sinking in.

_- Maybe that catch was just a fluke._

_- Oh, well. He's no worse than Eddie. Eddie can't hit anything when he's here, either._

The Sluggers' shortstop took the opportunity to get in a good taunt.

"Hey, we thought you were going to be good! I've seen better swings on a porch!"

_What a pansy,_ Beanpole thought... and then he decided to have a little fun with me.

I reminded myself to stay still, not to react as though I knew what was coming. When he threw right at my head, I waited until the last moment and jerked back, doing my best to look startled. He relished the 'boos' that came from my teammates, smirking at me as the ball was called and thrown back to him.

As I settled back over the makeshift home plate, I returned his smirk with _the _grin. He instantly stiffened, the smirk disappearing, and his shoulder twitched as though a shiver had run down his spine.

_- Creepy._

Unnerved, he re-thought his pitch several times before settling on another fastball just to get it over with. But I widened the grin as he wound up, and he missed wildly, the ball sailing _behind _me. I let it go, keeping still, my gaze unblinking as another ball was called and my teammates threw a few choice jeers at him.

He postured after the ball was thrown back to him, pretending to look thoughtful as he adjusted his hat and stubbed his foot in the grass... and was freshly disturbed when he looked up again and saw me in the same position, wearing the same expression. At that moment, his arrogance started warring with his intuition...

_- He's going to hit just about anything I throw, isn't he? ...Nah, he's just trying to mess with me. I can take care of this chump._

He readied, wound up, and then finally let it go. To his credit, the palmball went where he wanted - low, but in, and slower than usual, hoping I'd swing too early. But I didn't.

My swing was a little faster than the other two times, just a touch more power behind it, the bat connecting with a satisfying _crack! _I dropped it and started a sluggish run for first without bothering to watch where the ball was headed. I already knew.

Cheers erupted from the River Rats, electrified comments and shouts from all around...

"Ho-o-o-omerun! Homer!"

_- Three, nothing, here we come!_

_- Is it going to go out of the park?_

Albert was already almost to home plate.

Harry thought it had to be some kind of record, at least for their games... there was applause and whistles from spectators... Carlisle among them.

I was halfway to first, and Finny hadn't even started for second yet. He was standing there, watching the ball in awe.

_- Wow, that thing's got a motor on it!_

"Finny! Hey, go, go!" I shouted, waving him on.

With a joyous shout, he started tearing off to second, and I couldn't help grinning... the elation all around me was infectious.

I reached first base, then second, and as I headed to third, Finny was there at the halfway point, jogging backwards so I could catch up to him. He leapt around like he had springs on the soles of his shoes, ruffling my hair as we jogged together over third... and _then_ I looked at what was happening on the field. The Sluggers' center was off in the distance, just now picking up the ball where it had landed- as far away from home plate as it could get and still be within the park. Beanpole's frown was petulant at best.

When I looked ahead to home plate, my smile faded at the sight of what was waiting for me, and I realized there was no way out of it. Every single one of the River Rats - even Albert - were going to _swamp _me, and I had to breathe. I had to look at least a _little _winded. My head down, I sped up until I felt the first hand on my back... _just get it over with... _and was stopped by a wall of flesh. I was surrounded with shouts and and slaps and one-armed hugs around my neck... all of them noticing my cold physique, but too caught up in the moment to care.

I took quick, shallow breaths, each one like billows stoking a flame higher and higher... _feeling_ their wildly thrumming heartbeats crushed all against me, blood-warmed skin on my hands and face and in my hair, the too-familiar flames igniting like a brush fire inside. The _scent was _so much more intense than ever before, the agonizing pain in my stomach, screeching to be sated.

I summoned everything I'd learned and held onto it as desperately as I could. I didn't _want_ to slip. I was having too much fun to ruin this. I let them maul me, holding as still as I could without being completely motionless. Enduring the bursts of contact was torture, and all I could do was focus through the fire and the scent and the sweat and the skin, hanging onto one thought, and one thought only... _it will be over soon_.

Carlisle watched me swallowed up by the throng, knowing what I was going through. His alarmed thoughts were ratcheting up to near-paranoia.

"It's fine. Fine," I said clearly.

"Hell, that was better than fine - that was incredible!" Jimmy shouted.

_- Edward, are you absolutely sure?_

"Yeah, thanks," I replied to both of them, unable to keep from grinning. It was a strange feeling, to be so giddy and elated, and yet in horrible pain at the same time.

It couldn't have taken longer than fifteen seconds for the celebration to settle, but it was the most arduous fifteen seconds of my existence, and the whole time I was ready to bolt, to get away if I had to. And then a thought came through that really, really helped, and it wasn't from Carlisle, but from Harry.

_- I'm taking him and his brother out for beers after this._

My stomach churned with appetite-killing disgust at the mention of beer. It was enough to distract me in the last few moments until they finally fell away, some drifting into excited conversation about what had just happened, others calling out taunts to the Sluggers. As Aaron stepped up to take his turn at bat, and the game got going again, the burn started dwindling, and I knew for certain that I'd make it through. I also knew I wouldn't be doing anything to inspire that kind of response again.

"Where'd you learn to play?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Just my neighborhood at home," I replied.

Harry kept chattering at me, asking about my favorite players, if I knew what my average was- I only half paid attention, making up a lot of the answers I gave him, because I had no idea about the specifics. I couldn't remember them. But I loved baseball, and was happy to be playing it. I guess you could say I'd walked through fire to play it.

Aaron got to second base with ease, but after that, Beanpole recovered from the upset of my homerun and started concentrating again. Our next batter struck out, and the one after that hit a pop-up that their shortstop caught. Still, being up by three was a great way to close the first inning, and, at last, it was time to take the field.

I picked up my borrowed glove and made a beeline for center field, immensely grateful for the green expanse that put sorely needed distance between me and my teammates. I took a deep breath when I got into position, relishing that it was mostly grass and pollen that I could smell. Compared to what it had been just a few minutes ago, the human scent seemed no more than a peripheral tease.

Nothing came my way for a little while. After two strikes, the first batter ended up bunting out a fast grounder, but Aaron was on it like a magnet, getting it to Albert in time for the out.

He really _was_ good. It was no wonder everyone thought he was destined to play in the big leagues. Aaron had great instincts and the most impressive coordination I'd seen in a human. He was quick and accurate, and although he wasn't large, his compact frame contained well-developed strength. Also, his thoughts were clear and good-natured, which was a nice break for me. I liked him.

The second one up at bat ended up taking a walk to first, and the third got a clean hit into left field, and Ben, our left fielder, got it to third in time to keep the play from being a double, but no out.

I was hoping to see a little action when their clean-up hitter stepped up. I'd already known it, but Harry had told me this one had a knack for hitting into center field. Sure enough, after one ball and a strike, he cracked one way over second and it sailed right to me. I thought for a moment about missing it, just to make things interesting, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I only had to step forward a few paces to catch it for the out, so I did. Deciding it would be a little much if I threw the ball right to Harry from this distance; I resisted the urge and settled for throwing to our second baseman to relay it. It was dismaying to hold back so much.

At last, their fifth batter hit something I could go really after. I wouldn't be able to catch it outright without running too fast, so I kept my pace reined in, latching onto Aaron's vision to make sure it looked okay. Listening to the plodding feet of the Sluggers making their base runs... seeing what they were all planning depending on how quickly I fielded the ball... he was in the best position to tag one of them and get an out, but Aaron's mind wasn't on the game at that precise moment. His eyes were on me, alright, but focused on the glove on my hand, thinking about his brother, worrying about him. It preoccupied me, too, for a moment. I was still going after the ball, knowing exactly when I'd need to start diving to get to it the quickest, but curious about what Aaron was thinking- and then one really loud, obnoxious thought screamed into everything.

_Jesus! Could Masen move any damn slower?  
_  
Albert, again. The shrill complaint crawled up my spine. Only the second inning and I was already more than sick of him. He was standing petulantly at his post on first base, thinking I should be moving faster and then throwing right to him, which was ridiculous. His was the least likely position to get a runner out and end the inning, skill or no skill.

I left Aaron's mind and flashed an irritated look at Albert, then jumped headlong to catch the ball on a bounce, rolling up and funneling the upward energy through my arm right into the ball as I threw it to Aaron.

Several things happened in the next two seconds.

First, as soon as the ball left my hand, I froze in dread, still on one knee, and all I could think was _oh, no... _which was simultaneously echoed by Carlisle's mind as his posture tensed and he stood away from the car, watching the ball travel much faster than humanly possible. At the same time, Albert's thoughts were stunned into silence, as were most others after an initial, impressed _whoa_.

To their sight, my movements had been a blur as I'd rolled up and thrown.

And then I almost felt relief, realizing that the ball was going to smash into the trunk of a maple on the other side of the park if it continued unobstructed, and it was _way_ too fast for anyone to catch. No one's eyes had even caught up to it yet, and I almost had a chance to start thinking of ways to gracefully leave without explaining why I threw a ball so fast it nearly destroyed a tree. But then I noticed Aaron's grayish-blue eyes widen, half in disbelief, half in determination, and heard the thump of his heartbeat quicken, his arm stretching out.

He could _see_ it? His glove would have _no_ chance of cushioning that blow... could he really... he was going to - _no!_

"Don't catch it!" I screamed, springing to my feet.

But Aaron's bones were breaking before my words were out. As soon as the ball hit his glove, I heard a series of tiny cracks as his fingers were shattered, and then the snap of his wrist... the popping of his elbow and shoulder torn from their sockets as his arm was whipped back, his body twisting around with the inhuman velocity, and he was flung to the ground face-down, where he lay crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Silence hung over the field for an eternal moment... confusion... some wondering what had happened, others who but couldn't quite believe what they'd seen... and then a long, thin scream of pain came from the boy on the ground.

Players from both teams started making their way to him - some were running, others walking - glancing warily at me as they moved, murmuring to each other.

_- Jesus, what _was _that?_

"Did you see that?"

"See what? What happened to him?"

_- That's impossible... not even the fastest fireballer i've seen could match that..._

_- What's wrong with that guy?_

"I've never seen someone go down like that just from catching a ball."

"Holy shit! Look at his arm!"

I saw it through Harry's eyes as he got to Aaron... his arm, wrenched out of the shoulder socket, looked longer than it should have, his elbow bent at a hideous, backwards angle.

Harry knelt over him, unsure of what to do. "Aaron? We'll getcha help, just hang in there. Aaron?"

Aaron took sobbing breaths between screams; his only thought amidst the pain was a frantic memory of the ball he'd just caught, wondering what went wrong. Albert tried gingerly lifting Aaron's hand to take his glove off, but the fresh agony in the boy's screaming made him set it back down hastily, the culprit ball rolling out of the glove.

"Someone get a doctor!" Jimmy shouted.

"We should get him to the hospital!"

"No-no-no, don't move him yet!" Finny kept Albert from trying to roll Aaron over.

Carlisle was already walking swiftly onto the field, bearing a medical bag he always kept in the car.

_I'll take care of it, Edward. You should just go now.  
_  
"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Excuse me, please let me through - I'm a doctor," he said upon reaching the group. _I know. It's alright. You didn't mean to do it, I know. But the best thing would be if you just left before they start asking you questions you won't be able to answer._

The group huddling around their wounded teammate parted for Carlisle, and the first thing he did after kneeling was prepare a shot of morphine.

I was already on my way out of the park, feeling the shocked stares on my back, the glove Aaron had loaned to me on the grass where I'd dropped it.

_To be continued..._

_

* * *

_

Thank you for reading, especially to those of you who were hanging in there during the long spells between chapters. I only hope they're worth the wait.

Huge thanks also to texbelle, who not only was the original Twilighted validation beta for this story, but also recommended _My Lost Youth_ to The Lazy Yet Discerning Ficster. She had the loveliest stuff to say about it, and I was thrilled.

If there are any baseball aficionados out there who've spied errors in this chapter, I apologize. Feel free to correct me.


	11. The Arrow and the Song, Part II

Chapter 10 - The Arrow and the Song, Part II

_I shot an arrow into the air,  
It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
For so swiftly it flew, the sight  
Could not follow in its flight_

_I breathed a song into the air,  
It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
For who has sight so keen and strong  
That it can follow the flight of song?_

_Long, long afterward, in an oak,  
I found the arrow still unbroke;  
And the song, from beginning to end,  
I found again in the heart of a friend._

_- The Arrow and the Song_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

**The Song**

**All I** wanted was run to as fast as I could, and as soon as I was away from the park, when I could no longer hear thoughts of what had just happened there in any of the minds around me, that's exactly what I did. I turned off the sidewalk and lit down a cluttered alley. I registered the possibility that someone might be looking out the windows above, but if they were, I couldn't discern it in any thoughts, and besides, I was moving too fast for sluggish human eyes to follow. I leapt up a stack of crates to a rooftop, up onto it, running across several more and then descending into another alley... bursting over an empty stretch of patchy weeds to dive right into the Milwaukee River.

I didn't keep track of the miles as I swam against the current, underneath the surface. I measured my distance from civilization by the distilled voices of human thought that gradually faded from busy, metropolitan babble to scattered murmurs. When the river got too shallow, I would get out and run until it was deep enough again, then back in; it was the easiest way to stay out of sight, the quickest way home. But it didn't matter how fast I swam; the voices couldn't go away soon enough. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity had passed when, at last, there was blessed silence beyond the rush of water and the shift of sediment beneath its flow. I was still two miles south of Grafton when I slipped out of the river onto the eastern bank, and I didn't move beyond that spot. Finally away from human scrutiny, I froze into natural stillness on all fours, staring sightlessly at my hands curling into the bracken while turmoil raged within.

My memory of every second since I'd awakened in that basement almost ten months ago was flawless, save for those times in the first few months when the thirst would get its absolute worst, and I was reduced to pure savagery. It was a mark of our kind. While our warm-blooded mortal days fade in memory, nothing is forgotten of our new existence from the moment we wake to it- no sight, sound, sensation... no mistake. There wasn't even the temporary refuge of sleep. As Carlisle once put it, every moment is a waking moment.

I would never forget the way Aaron's scream pierced the confusion in that park, or the look in his eyes just before, when he reached out for that ball, thinking that my motions had looked blurry to him because he hadn't been focused on the game.

Like I said, he was good-natured.

I would never forget the ripping tendons and shattering bones, or the hideous malformity of his arm as he lay on the grass. I pictured Aaron Barnes laid out on the backseat of the Peerless, his eyes glazed over by shock and the effects of morphine, his mangled arm braced and slung for the drive to the hospital. The way his elbow and shoulder had been dislocated, I knew there had to have been torn ligaments and ruptured vessels, maybe even the brachial artery. He could lose his arm altogether if surgeons couldn't put it back together inside. They'd probably have to splay it completely open...

The cursed bloodlust flared at the thought, the insistent burn licking up my throat, and I couldn't contain the scream of disgust at myself. Clenching fistfuls of drenched hair, I let out a screeching wail that carried through the woods for miles, sounding more like some prehistoric animal than a person.

And that was just it. I wasn't _human._ I never would be. _Baseball?_ What the hell had I been thinking? It hadn't even taken two innings to make it clear that I didn't belong there.

At least I was too far away now to do any more damage to the boy. I'd already crippled him for life. There was no way his arm would heal well enough for him to play in the big leagues now. And for what? Because I'd let myself get irritated about the asinine comments of one insecure mortal?

If only I didn't have to hear every thought around me all the time. If only it didn't take the utmost concentration to keep from destroying most things I touched. If only I wasn't what I was, God damn it!

I'd never be able to do what Carlisle had learned to do. I knew that now. I didn't know who was more foolish: me, for believing I could be like him, or Carlisle himself, for thinking the same thing.

How could I get through the next week without making some catastrophic mistake, if I couldn't even get through today? What chance did I stand in the face of what was coming?

Only a few days from now, _they_ would be here. And everything Carlisle had been doing, thinking, was all geared towards preparing me for it, as though their visit was going to be the test of a lifetime. I could see that, even though he'd carefully hidden _why _he was preparing me.

I'd known it ever since the day the letter arrived.

* * *

**February 11, 1919**

_I shouldn't have written to him about Edward... what have I done?_

I glanced at the opened envelope on his desk. The letter had come from Volterra, Italy.

"The Volturi? You wrote to them about me?"

He nodded grimly. "After the New Year, I wrote to Aro with news about you."

"What's so disturbing about that?" I asked nervously.

_Maybe nothing, maybe everything. This response of his... _he shook his head apologetically, his gaze still stuck on the letter. "I wrote to Aro because he'd always been intensely curious about what would happen if I ever tried to change someone. He was convinced I wouldn't be able to do it- that as soon as I got my first taste of human blood, I wouldn't be able to stop..."_ and there were other complications he foresaw..._

His mind revisited part of a conversation he'd had with Aro towards the end of his decades-long stay with the Volturi, and the scene was different from others I'd witnessed from that part of his existence. I was familiar with the sight of their polished marble halls hidden away underneath Volterra, and of the three filmy-eyed beings in their thrones. Carlisle had even given me glimpses of how they delivered their lethal brand of justice.

But this memory took place in a dormant garden enclosed by high stone walls. I'd never seen one of the ancients in the light. They usually looked more frail than others of our kind, their skin appearing thinner- perhaps with age, but more likely because of the untold centuries they spent in a kind of stasis, never venturing from where they were, doing so very little. They didn't even hunt anymore, instead herding unsuspecting humans into their lair like cattle to the slaughter. It was no wonder youthful vigor had seemed to escape the trio, even as immortal as they were. But in the sunlight, the differences melted away. Aro's skin shone with the same brilliance as mine or Carlisle's...

"I'm concerned about you, young one," he said to Carlisle as they walked along. "The path you are about to choose... do you really think you can endure eternity in such isolation?"

"I will not be so very alone," Carlisle responded. "There will be the mortals I live among and heal."

"Oh, now truly, how can you pretend that companionship of any value could come from such lowly creatures?" Aro chided. "I'm pleased that you find purpose in this little hobby of yours, but you know as well as I that you cannot find friendship among mere mortals."

As much as he wanted to argue this point, Carlisle knew he couldn't. Aro was right, at least in that the differences between vampires and humans were too great to allow meaningful interaction.

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "But how I choose to survive distances me from my own kind as well."

"Then choose differently, my friend. You would be so much more content."

"There is no other choice for me, Aro," Carlisle said, smirking gently. They'd been through this so many times. "You know you cannot convince me otherwise."

The old vampire sighed lightly, more amused than annoyed. "No, I suppose not. But I do wish to impress upon you how unbearable you'll find such solitude. I have lived for thousands of years, and, I assure you, I could not have endured the millenia alone. What a sad and empty thing life would be without my dear Sulpicia and my brothers, our guard."

_Your power, _Carlisle added silently. He knew all too well that the Volturi's greatest thirst was to exercise absolute authority over our kind, as they had done for roughly twenty-five hundred years. Aro was the most instrumental of the three, the greatest strategist, and the most power-hungry. Carlisle had witnessed too many of Aro's manipulations, growing all too aware that he was a pon in some of them. Their feeding habits weren't the only reason he'd decided to finally leave Volterra, parting company with the most civilized of our kind he'd ever met.

"I will manage," he replied to Aro.

"I have no doubt you will _manage, _Carlisle. My only question is, for how long?"

Aro drifted to a halt on the mossy path they walked along. Carlisle paused with him, then watched as the ancient approached one of the garden's centerpieces. It was a craggy olive tree not much taller than he was, and its sprawling branches, once evergreen, were mostly bare. Twisting and knobby, worn smooth and white in places, the limbs resembled warped bones more than wood. Aro ran a finger delicately along a dying bough.

"Has Marcus told you of this?" he asked.

Carlisle shook his head. He'd always wondered why they kept the thing. It was all but dead, producing only a handful olives most years, if that.

"Ah. Not surprising, I suppose," Aro replied. "But this dreadful plant is one of his treasures. Our dear, departed Didyme planted it after our first century in Volterra, but unfortunately she neglected to partner it before her demise. It has no mate, no other of its kind in our gardens, and though it has lived for nearly twenty-three centuries, it has never truly thrived. Every year, it bears fewer and fewer of those repulsive little fruits. I don't think there's another century left in its limbs." Aro turned from Marcus's prized bit of slowly decaying wood, meeting Carlisle's steady gaze. "And yet, just over three-hundred miles from here, there is another olive tree much like this one, even older than I, and it bears fruit vigorously. That tree is part of a millenary grove, though, you see. It has companions. It has young."

Aro drifted back to Carlisle's side, his sparkling face masked with concern, but Carlisle could see the delighted glint in Aro's eyes. He had long ago realized that there were layered meanings in most of what the ancient vampire said. It was simply the way Aro was, and more often than not, although their friendship was solid, Carlisle got the feeling that he and his way of life were mostly just great sources of amusement for Aro, like he was a pet who could do an entertaining trick.

"It makes me wonder, my unique friend," Aro continued. "How long will it take for _you_ to wither in your solitude? You have great tenacity, but cannot thrive in such conditions. It is only a matter of time before the craving for a companion will be too much to bear. What will you do then? You won't even be able to create one of your own."

Carlisle's brow furrowed. "I have no wish to be responsible for any creature having to bear the burdens of this existence, Aro. But I have the capability to pass it on, the same as you."

"Do you?" Aro asked breathily, his filmy, crimson gaze dancing in amusement. "Your venom is no less potent than mine, but you are so terrified of killing one of these ridiculous mortals that you've never dared to permit yourself even one drop of their blood. I could not give the _gift_ of immortality without exercising great restraint, and that restraint is borne of familiarity with the effects of the blood, and of being able to feast on others before and after. And yet you will not partake until you wish to preserve the life you taste? Truly, Carlisle, do you believe you could save your would-be fledgling from _yourself_?"

"I understand why it's unlikely, but it's not impossible," Carlisle said calmly.

"Unlikely, indeed," came the droll reply. "Even more unlikely is that this fledgling of yours would tolerate the deprivations of your diet. How will your conscience bear it, my compassionate friend? You will either kill the mortal yourself by accident, or unleash a newborn who will take so many of the lives you refrain from taking yourself."

Carlisle was silent for a long moment, disquieted by the implications of Aro's words. The scenario his calculating friend had just envisioned was all too likely.

"I suppose, were I ever to create another, all I could do is endeavor to pass on what I've learned and hope the poor soul might find merit in it," he finally said, and then smirked. "You seem very set on my prospects being bleak, Aro. It might be more persuasive if I didn't suspect that this is just one more of your efforts to induce me to stay in Volterra."

"You know me too well." Aro's laughter was almost youthful as they started strolling again. "I will miss you, but perhaps I shouldn't encourage you to stay. Do you know that, when I fed yesterday, our last conversation was fresh on my mind, and because of it I almost felt _pity_ for my food?"

"Did you really? I'm glad to hear it." Carlisle smiled wryly.

"You're an exceedingly bad influence, my friend. By the way, I would appreciate it if what I just confided in you was kept between us. If Caius found out, I wouldn't hear the end of it for centuries."

* * *

And there the image of the garden faded, leaving Carlisle's apologetic gaze fixed on the letter.

_I wrote to him just to settle those old concerns, to tell him that it was, in fact, possible to resist. Now I see I was too proud. Vain! _He cursed himself._ It was a mistake to indulge myself that way._

"What's wrong? Does he object to you changing me?"

"No, quite the opposite. He approves enthusiastically," he replied, agitated. "I knew he'd be curious about you, but I never imagined he'd be _this_ curious."

My lips pressed in frustration. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"You may as well read for yourself." He muttered, holding out the pages. I was able to see the elegant penmanship just fine from where I was at, though, so I didn't take the letter from him. Besides...

"You know I don't speak Italian," I told him.

"You should learn." _It might come in handy fairly soon._

Carlisle left the letter on the desk while he rose and plucked a volume on the Italian language off a shelf behind him, at the same time beginning to recite the letter for me in English. Because he spoke in his mind, though, combining it with his memory of the ancient vampire, I heard it in Aro's own voice- smooth and unerringly polite, with just a hint of some arcane accent... and laced with darkness.

_My Dear Carlisle,  
_  
_ What a pleasant surprise it was to receive your letter, my unique friend! We were beginning to wonder if we would see the close of this millennium before hearing from you again.  
_  
_ Such astonishing news you have. I didn't anticipate that you, with your delicate sensibilities, would take a risk of such magnitude unless, perhaps, to take a companion of a much more intimate nature. Yet again, you've defied expectations. Your confidence in the boy must have been substantial. I'm curious to hear about his progress, and am hopeful, for your sake, that he isn't of a rebellious ilk. Although, as it often did during those long conversations between us, the question arises: which path is the truly rebellious?  
_  
_ And what an intriguing gift this fledgling of yours is blessed with! We are, as you might imagine, quite interested to hear how extensive it proves to be. I look forward to shaking his hand someday. What a fascinating conversation we could have.  
_  
_ As it happens, the timing of your news is fortuitous, bringing me to some news of our own. Our work, as you know, is never done, and I'm afraid there have been troublesome events taking place in the southern regions of your adopted homeland. Territory disputes are nothing new under the sun, of course, but, regrettably, these particular disputes aren't as discreet as they should be. I wouldn't be surprised if you've become aware of them yourself, as they've created quite a stir. We've received numerous complaints in recent decades, and have decided that the time to act is upon us. We've dispatched some of the guard to take care of the situation, and have already had reports from Demetri. Evidently the warring factions are numerous, more than we understood there to be, and many are fleeing as word of their impending punishment reaches them. That always prolongs matters miserably.  
_  
_ But let me not rattle on about unpleasant things. The good news is that Demetri anticipates the problem will be completely resolved by summer's end. It is such a wearisome task our guard is performing, I cannot help but think how refreshing it might be for them to see a friendly face before returning to Volterra, and your praise of the Great Lakes region is high indeed. As such, in my most recent reply to Demetri, I've suggested that they pay you a leisurely visit after their work is done. Their stay with you would be brief, and I don't anticipate that would be an imposition, as your letter mentioned you'll be in isolation for the next year or so. And, of course, we would all very much like an introduction to your companion. I only regret that I'm not disposed meet him in person. I'm afraid my dear Sulpicia is no more inclined to travel than she was when you were with us.  
_  
_ I've instructed Demetri to write to you with word as to when, precisely, he and his companions will be visiting. Ordinarily such details would be unnecessary, but I know that your peculiar lifestyle requires such accommodations, and it is no trouble. In the meantime, we look forward to hearing from you again very soon.  
_  
_With My Best and Fondest Regards,  
Aro_

By the time he was finished reciting the letter, we were seated across the desk from each other, the Italian book forgotten in my lap. Despite having memorized the letter with the first reading, Carlisle was still examining the small pages as if their content might miraculously change.

_Should I have expected this? _he wondered. _Maybe it's nothing to be alarmed about. I knew Edward's skill would pique their interest, and eventually we'd have to reckon with this. But I was thinking in terms of decades, not months. _

"Why did you tell him about it?"

"They would have found out sooner or later, and I thought it best that they hear about it from me," he murmured, frowning. "It would be unfortunate if they got the impression that I was deliberately hiding your talent from them, especially when it's so like Aro's."

This was news to me. In our previous discussion about the Volturi, he'd never mentioned Aro's gift except to say it was powerful, and I hadn't seen anything in Carlisle's memories yet to reveal what it was.

"He's a mind-reader?"

"Yes, but not quite like you. He has to touch you to know your thoughts, but when he does, it's not just what you're thinking at the moment that he sees. In the space of a few seconds, he'll see every memory, every thought you've had in your entire life."

The implications of such a thing took several moments to settle in. At last, Carlisle's words after our first hunt made sense.

"_Even though I'm not touching you? ...still just one way... already more unique than you can possibly realize."_

What would it be like to know a person's entire life, _all_ their thoughts and memories, in just a few seconds? And through touch, too. That part actually sparked a twinge of envy. Aro got to pick and choose whose thoughts he heard, and when.

While I was busy feeling jealous, Carlisle puzzled over why the Volturi would be interested in me so quickly. _It can only be Edward's gift, I'm sure, but why the urgency? _

"Should I leave?" I asked.

Carlisle blanched. "Why would you leave?"

"Are they going to destroy me?"

"Of course not," he replied, visibly relieved. "Don't worry about that. You've committed no crime, and you certainly don't pose a threat to them. No one does, so it can't be that," he muttered. He tossed the letter to the desk and sat back, frowning at the pages with his arms crossed. It was truly amazing how human his gestures were. He really _didn't_ think about them. I was lucky to remember to blink a few times a minute.

_It's a given, of course, that they'll want to employ your ability. They'll likely invite you to visit Volterra, ask you to join, _he grumbled internally.

"They will?"

"Oh, yes," he chuckled. "The Volturi collect talented vampires like you and arrange them into their guard like pieces on a chess board. You'd be a desirable asset, to put it mildly. I anticipated they'd invite you to join someday."

"Then they're wasting their time," I growled, fighting back a swell of anger. I was learning to recognize the onset of the violent moods that Carlisle had said were a normal part of being a "newborn," and I knew my anger would get out of hand if I let it. Still, I felt it was justified right then. The decrepit old trio was going to try wheedling me into joining their regiment of murderous freaks. "Dwelling in some network of tunnels under Volterra?" I seethed. "Feeding on humans herded in like cattle? Forget the moral implications, it sounds just plain boring."

"It's not as bad as all that." Carlisle smirked. "You'd be surprised how pleasant it is there- most of the time, at any rate. They have intellectual and academic pursuits, all of Europe within easy reach; it's a cultured life with purpose and friends, and they protect each other fiercely. Safest coven in the world, really."

I snorted. "Good grief, Carlisle. You should write back and tell them not to bother coming. It sounds like you're willing to do the recruiting for them."

But he was too preoccupied to reply. _It was inevitable, but why so soon? They never act on anything this quickly. This is breakneck speed for them. Well, I suppose it's not so out of the way if they already have some of the guard in the States... it's actually somewhat relieving to hear they're taking care of things down there, terrible as it will be... but_ _Aro must know that I- _

He trailed off and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, like he was in pain. When he opened them again, he suddenly looked tired. I could tell he'd stumbled onto an answer to his questions, but what it was, I didn't know, because another stream of Italian had already started from his mind.

I tapped the book he'd given me. "I'm reading this tonight. What language are you going to use to hide from me with after that?"

But he didn't respond. Carlisle sat motionless in his old chair with a haunted expression, lost in his foreign-tongued thoughts, showing no signs of having heard me. The physical silence hung over the study for a solid minute before a question arose over the Italian.

"Edward, will you be alright if I step out for about an hour?" he murmured. "Hold your breath?"

I nodded, puzzled, and then watched him slowly rise and slip through the eastern door. I listened closely, concerned when he didn't break into a run right away. It sounded almost like he was walking in a daze as he stepped up the cement stairs. His pace finally quickened, and then started growing faint as he ran.

I'd never seen Carlisle truly shaken, and as I eyed the letter on his desk, I resisted the urge to follow him surreptitiously, to listen in on his thoughts. It didn't take long to completely shun that plan of action, though. He'd never do that to me, even if he could, and so rarely did he hide anything...

I just didn't understand.

_What could be so bad about any of this? _I wondered. _What is he afraid of? He isn't worried about them harming us. He said himself that we'd done no wrong. His anxiety must have to do with the likelihood of their inviting me to Volterra,_ _but didn't I just tell him I wasn't interested? What else is there? Maybe he'll let me know what it is when he gets back..._

In the meantime, my gaze was drawn to the southern wall with all its artwork, maps and framed mementos- a visual diary of Carlisle's immortal wanderings... but specifically to the large oil painting by Francesco Solimena_. _I'd studied it on several occasions in the last few months, but it was the memory of that first time he'd told me about it, what and who it truly depicted, that I revisited, wondering if there was something I missed during that conversation...

* * *

**November, 1918**

"_I didn't have to be a monster."_

"_No," I replied quietly, lost in wonder._

"_Neither do you, Edward."_

"_No."_

_Carlisle gave me a small smile and started arranging tinder in the cooled fireplace. In seconds he had it blazing again, and together we watched the flames in silence. I sat with my knees drawn up wrapped in my arms, with my chin resting on them, mulling over all I'd just seen..._

_"It's a good time to go hunting again, if you like," he said._

"_No, thanks. I feel alright for now." I wanted to push myself a little. The recent development had bolstered my spirits. I could make it through another bout or two, perhaps, before hunting again._

"_Are you certain? You might not feel the same way a few hours from now."_

"_I'm sure." I smiled crookedly and threw a piece of frame into the fire._

You _must_ be feeling better, _he mused._ I haven't seen you smile like that since the first night you were in the hospital. Ironically enough, you were saying the same thing then that you are now.

"_What do you mean?"_

"_You were insisting that you felt just fine."_

_We fell into throaty chuckles together._

"_Sounds like me."_

_As our laughter settled, I tried to see into his thoughts more deeply to find something that explained him. I was still in awe of all he'd shown me, and couldn't help feeling that there had to be something... _extra _in Cullen that gave him the strength he had. Maybe he was wrong that he had no gift. Maybe inner strength was his gift..._

_I wondered where we would go after leaving Chicago, what his plans were, but I couldn't see it in his thoughts right then. Looking at Carlisle in that moment, all I saw was someone radiating deep, contented joy. At last, he thought, he was in the good company of another creature who truly knew him._

We stayed in silence like that for some time, and he let his mind wander freely... it had been a long time since he'd revisited all those horrific details of his transformation.

"He failed," I murmured after a while.

"Hm?"

"The one who made you. He failed. You aren't accursed."

"Perhaps not," he replied. "I hope not, anyway."

"How can you be? You're not a slave to the thirst. You've never killed. "

"I came so close, though, Edward. Much closer than you have so far. And I don't think that defeating the thirst alone is the ultimate triumph," he said quietly. "It's in _continuing_ to defeat it, and finding other meaning in our existence. We may dwell on this earth in perpetuity, but we should still protect the sanctity of our souls. Like humans, we need purpose; we need to participate in this world as moral beings."

"The immortality..." I started, but then trailed off, hesitant to put my thoughts into words. He must have thought what I was thinking a thousand times or more.

"It frightens you."

I nodded slightly, glancing at him. "It doesn't scare _you_?"

"It used to, especially before I found my calling in medicine, and sometimes it still does. But I've come to terms with it for the most part. To me, 'forever' isn't an endless stretch of time in the future, but a continuous series of moments in the present. My life is usually made up of the day-to-day... and there have been times when it felt unbearable... the routine, time crawling by so slowly. But I never knew exactly what was coming next that might change everything." He paused, a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth. _Like you. _"And there have been times when I've looked back on how long I've lived, and wondered where all the time went, even though I can recall every moment. I would remember how long fifty years had once seemed, only to realize they'd passed quickly. Then a hundred years, two hundred..."

"But eternity..."

_It's a mistake to dwell on words like eternity, I think. It sounds like an abysmal prison sentence, and the more you think of your life like that, the more your life will resemble it. It's akin to self-fulfilling prophecy._

"I see."

I let the fire occupy my gaze for a little while, trying to ignore the doubt still gnawing at me about so many things, trying to believe what he said, to stay away from the idea of 'eternity.' But...

"No matter how I think of the time involved in immortality, I can't help but wonder... why protect the sanctity of our souls when there's nowhere for them to go?" I asked. "Our eternity is here."

"As I said, Edward, no one can speak for eternity. No one can speak for God-"

"You still believe?" I looked at him in surprise.

"I do," he said softly. "To be a human driven by conscience- a priest, even- only to be turned into an undead thing driven to kill? Yes, I had what you might call a crisis of faith. But when I discovered that I could function as a whole being without taking human life, I knew God hadn't forsaken me. And the first time I saved a human life, I knew I had purpose. If anything, what I've experienced since then has convinced me more than ever that there _is _a God, and that there's a reason for everything, no matter how awful."

"But, even then, there's no afterlife for us, is there? Humans pray to God and live according to God's rules so they're rewarded with heaven. Where's our end, if we can't die?"

A response was on his lips, but he hesitated, and quickly started thinking in Italian, and I instantly knew I was onto something.

"There _is_ a way to die, isn't there?" I asked anxiously.

After a long moment, he caved.

_There is one way._

"Tell me."

"I'm not sure that's wise."

"I won't try to kill myself," I chuckled. "I promise."

"You wouldn't be _able_ to kill yourself," he said with an amused smirk. "Not without help." _I suppose _y_ou have to know anyway, if you're to be able to defend yourself. _

Humor disappeared from Carlisle's face, and he set a jagged piece of floorboard into the crackling fireplace, staring at the wood as tongues of flame started to blacken it. "It's fire. Fire _will_ destroy us."

The very method his father used...

"So if you'd been burned at the stake after all..."

"Yes. All those methods I tried, and the one thing that should have occurred to me didn't. And it was the only thing that might have worked."

"'Might have?'"

"Even as suicidal as I was, I'm not sure I would have been able to bear the pain long enough," he said. "I've seen _one_ vampire set himself on fire, and he put the flames out within seconds." Carlisle closed his eyes for a moment, as if to dispel a horrible memory, deliberately keeping his mind free of images I might see. "But I've seen our kind reduced to ashes," he continued, "destroyed by other vampires. We're the only ones strong enough to destroy each other." He paused, gazing at me steadily. "The most effective way is to dismember the body and burn the pieces before they have a chance to repair themselves."

"How could they 'repair themselves?'"

He gave me a small, strange smile... _I'll show you..._ and then enclosed his right forefinger with his left hand and twisted it. The was a brief, shrill _crack_, like an iron spike gouging polished stone, and his thoughts suddenly screamed about pain. Before I realized what he'd just done, Carlisle tossed his finger across the room.

I stared in utter shock as the vampire seated in front of me gritted his teeth, his face contorted by agony before smoothing out again. He held up his mutilated hand so I could see the clear trickle of venom of pouring down the palm... and then I heard rustling on the other side of the room.

_It can't be, _I thought in dread. The noise got louder, and I forced myself to look at the source.

Carlisle's finger inched itself rapidly across the floor, making a beeline for us.

"Holy shit!" I yelled, scrambling back on all fours, gaping in horror.

The freakishly agile appendage quickly found the vampire's leg and launched itself up into his lap, then again onto his arm, continuing its gruesome crawl until the reaching the stub it had been broken from. The finger bent over to attach itself, rotated, and aligned perfectly. Skin melded to skin, iridescent bone to bone, and Carlisle's hand was whole again less than ten seconds after he'd thrown part of it away. He sighed in sheer relief.

It took effort to find my voice.

"H-how many times have you done that?"

"Just once before now, out of curiosity."

"What in the hell does that _feel_ like?"

"It hurts," he chuckled, "and there's an urgent sort of energy exchange between myself and my finger, like a form of magnetism. I wasn't telling my finger to move- it did that of its own accord. But even if all my external senses were gone, I'd still have been aware of exactly where it was, just as it knew where I was. And because were no distractions and I was relatively still, the repair happened quickly. If I had been in a struggle with another who had done that to me, it would have taken longer."

"I'll have to take your word for that, because I won't be trying it for myself anytime soon." I sat where I'd been before, growling low in my chest. "Don't ever do that again."

"Don't worry, I won't. It really does hurt."

I glared at Carlisle, and he responded in thought, laughing.

_Consider yourself lucky. The first time I saw this ability demonstrated, it was a head reattaching itself._

An image of a writhing, headless body started to come through from his memory. Its hands were scratching into a rough floor, crumbling the stone.

"Stop! Don't show me that!"

The image faded, but, still smiling a bit, Carlisle looked over at the fire and waved his hand lightning-fast through flames. The smoke took on the faintest tinge of violet, and a cloying, sweet odor, and when he withdrew his hand he immediately grabbed my bare forearm with it. I flinched in surprise- it was incredibly hot, but cooling rapidly.

"That's how to destroy our kind," he said evenly. "Several vampires incapacitate their victim, usually by ripping him or her apart, and burn the pieces immediately." Carlisle released my arm, settling back, staring into the fire again. His mind was drifting rapidly from one image of struggle to another, leaving each memory incomplete, before it got violent. And it made me wonder... I hated to ask, to even think it, but I had to know...

"Have you ever killed one of us?"

His gaze flickered back to me. "Not yet." _I would, though, if self-defense required it. And there were times when it almost came to that. During my first, nomadic decades, I learned to expect trouble when I happened across other vampires. While there were a few other solitary nomads that were decent enough, and even some mated pairs that were amiable, I discovered that most of our kind have been poisoned by this existence. They revel in their superiority over mortals, in their hedonism and rivalry, and more than few saw my gold eyes and took it as a sign of weakness. I had to fight sometimes, but fortunately never had to kill in order to get away... some aren't so lucky..._ his mental voice trailed off, but his gaze sharpened as he spoke aloud.

"If you choose to leave, Edward, keep away from the southernmost states, and Mexico, too. Vampires are territorial- we have to be, so that there aren't too many of us hunting in one area. Too many humans disappearing, dying in a concentrated area... it draws unwanted attention. Even I claim territory- not for hunting, but because I have the right to an area without anyone else hunting in it, either. A handful of covens in those southern regions are warring over territory, and it's something you want to stay far away from. It's turned into a vicious, much-too-visible war that's been going on for the better part of a century now. It's only a matter of time before the Volturi step in, if they haven't already."

"The Volturi?"

"Yes, and you need to know about them. All of our kind should, and yet so many newborns are never told, and they don't find out until it's too late." His brow furrowed. "I didn't know, either, not until my wandering took me to Italy, and I ran across them myself. Fortunately, though, I discovered the Volturi in a comparatively pleasant way. It was the summer of 1720, and it was Marcus who met me first, and invited me to their lair in Volterra... I was very impressed when he took me back there..."

Carlisle look away from the fire, at me and my perplexed stare.

"The Volturi, as they call themselves, are the most ancient of intact covens, and the most permanently fixed. They're not nomadic in the least. You'd be surprised by how much of vampire lore consists of things that the ancients of Volterra have intentionally devised to shroud our true nature." He shifted to face the southern wall. "There- that painting by Solimena, for example." I looked at the centrally placed work of art, with its myriad human figures clamoring around marble columns and steps as pale, sickly beings were driven from their midst by what appeared to be a host of angels. "The three most prominent angels- do you see? Marcus, Aro, Caius... the three Volturi brothers. Solimena knew them only as very eccentric patrons, and worked their likeness in as a measure of gratitude. If only he'd known..." he murmured.

"The fourth angel looks familiar," I said, smirking. The blond figure with its head thrown back, twisting in heavenly form, was a startling likeness to the vampire beside me.

"Yes, that's me," he confessed. "This painting was commissioned during my time in Volterra- I was there for over forty years- and it's not the only one my likeness appears in. There are others, which remain in Europe. I was a fixture in Volterra for some time..." He smiled. _I even assisted Aro in_ _planting a new figure in vampire lore that was based on me._

"What?"

"It's true," he chuckled, shaking his head. "It's a very obscure figure, but those who know of it call me the S_tregone Benefici, _or the benevolent vampire- a sworn enemy of all vampires who prey on humanity."

"You're joking."

"No. It was one of Aro's efforts to show me how easy it is to create legends based on half-truths. I may not hunt humans, but neither am I an enemy to those who do.

"This particular work depicts, oddly enough, the exile of vampires from Volterra many centuries ago," he continued, "and like the legend of S_tregone Benefici_, it's half-true. It _is_ the Volturi who are responsible for the fact that no human, in or near Volterra, has fallen prey to a vampire for thousands of years now. Theirs is the only coven there, and they don't tolerate any hunting in the area, not even for themselves. They don't hunt anymore at all, for that matter. Their meals are lured in from elsewhere. Usually vacationers, nowadays." He paused, troubled, as flashes of those feedings burst through his mind.

"But the legend persists," he continued momentarily, reminding himself of my ability to see his thoughts. "The locals still observe St. Marcus Day every spring, to celebrate the day the angels drove out the blood drinkers. Of course, they have no idea that those 'angels' were themselves vampires who never left Volterra, and dwell there amongst them to this day."

"And Solimena used their likeness for the angels," I muttered.

He nodded. "I was amazed by what they'd accomplished," he said, "and they, in turn, were fascinated by me. I was the first of our kind they knew of who had lived on the blood of animals by choice, from the very start, never having tasted the blood of humans. Aro, especially, was intrigued, and cultivated a friendship with me.

"For a long while, I thought I had found my best chance at being content within Volterra. The Volturi were incredibly cultured; they pursued intellectual pastimes, kept histories, patronized artists, and fed human lore through such avenues." He sighed. "But, of course, there was also their power, which they built upon at every opportunity."

I looked at him quizzically.

"The Volturi are more than a large, well-established coven," he explained, gazing at me strangely. "They're the self-appointed rulers of our kind, which is why it's so crucial that you know of them. Each of the three brothers is thousands of years old, and their coven consists mostly of their mates and their guard, many of them with unique talents. Aro and Marcus both have powerful gifts themselves. They've ruled for over 2,500 years."

My brow furrowed. "Like royalty?"

"Close to it, yes," he said, smirking. _How Aro thrills at such descriptions._ "Except they don't actually regulate how we live, and they don't demand conventional allegiance. But they enforce their law almost without exception, and do so lethally."

"They have _laws_?"

"One law," he replied quietly. "And I happen to agree with it. It's crucial that humanity remains ignorant of our existence, Edward. To expose our kind to the mortals is to break that one law. That law exists not just for our sake, but for humanity's as well. In many different parts of the world, vampires lived openly among mortals at one time or another, very long ago. They were worshiped, feared, sacrificed to... but when humanity would see past our strength and speed, the odd talent now and again, they would lose their fear and imagine that they could cast us out. The eventual outcome would always be a slaughter. It's an unfortunate necessity that our existence remains shrouded. It's safer for them, and for us. Without it, we can't live freely, and humanity is jeopardized. There are numerous ways to expose us, but no matter how it happens, if the Volturi find out, they _will_ kill you for it."

My eyes flared wide, anger surfacing as the implications set in.

"But last night, after the hunt, you told me I could go if I wanted," I exclaimed. "I didn't know about any of this! I could've been in the wrong place in the morning when sunlight hit, or killed people in plain view without even realizing what I was doing- and you were just going let me go like that?"

"No." He smiled wryly, unruffled by my temper. "I fibbed a little, I'm afraid. A lie by omission. I said youwere free to go, and you were, of course. I wouldn't have been strong enough to contain you if you wanted to leave. But I would've followed you and been a real pest."

For a moment I imagined what that would've been like... me tearing off for Chicago, lured by the scent of teeming humanity. Carlisle following discreetly, biding his time, then popping up before I could make my first kill or wander into sunlight. I probably would've tried to lose him, perhaps even fight him... and he'd just show up again, and again, and again.

"God, you would've been annoying," I chuckled, and he started to laugh, too.

"I'm so glad you decided to come back to the house," he said, shaking his head. "It would've been such a chore having to track you down and get you to listen to any of this."

His laughter gradually faded as he entertained the notion some more, imagining the pain of having to accept my choice if I'd kept on and rejected his way of life. He still would have had to teach me enough to keep me from exposing my nature to humans I _didn't_ kill, and then return to his old life, grieved by the knowledge that saving me had made him a murderer by proxy.

"That was one hell of a risk you took, wasn't it?"

He smiled enigmatically."You were worth it. I knew the chances were excellent that you'd listen. You have so much goodness in you, Edward."

I didn't reply, instead looking back at the fire, tossing the last of the wooden debris into it. I wanted his obviously high opinion of me to be well-placed, but I remembered the hell of a few hours' previous, and knew I had a long, long way to go before earning even a little of the faith he already had in me.

"Did you leave Volterra because of the killing?" I asked, deflecting the subject change. "The _feeding_, I guess I should say?"

_Partly, yes, _he conceded._ It wasn't my place to object to their ways. Like all of our kind, they were following their natural instincts. But I eventually realized that, no matter how much I wanted to turn the other cheek, I couldn't live among them without being demoralized by their way of life, just as they were compelled to change my mind, as well. Aro and I spent many long hours trying to coax one another into a different way of life, neither succeeding._ _But there were other reasons, as well. After being seen by so many of our kind who visited Volterra and saw how close I was to the triad... my likeness in those paintings... I grew uncomfortable with being so closely identified with the Volturi_._ I've never sought the power they do. As much merit as there is in the law, I don't wish to kill, not even those who break it. So often I couldn't help thinking that there were other ways to deal with those who broke the law. Many didn't even know it existed, or that the Volturi existed... "_And though Aro is my friend," he said, without even realizing he had drifted into using his voice, "he had no compunction about using me as an unwitting participant in some of his manipulative power-grabs. I knew no real peace there."

I cast my eyes down in contemplative understanding, dwelling silently on these ancient creatures he knew so well, able to match them up now with those images I'd seen in his mind a few times- the cloaked figures closing in malevolently around a terrified vampire.

"Will I ever meet them?" I asked.

"Probably," he replied after a long silence.

* * *

**June 20th, 1919**

As many times as I examined the memory of that conversation, I still couldn't glean anything from it that would explain Carlisle's anxiety about their visit, and he never did tell me after he returned that February afternoon.

But I knew something was wrong, especially on nights like this.

Carlisle was only a half mile behind me, but it was taking extra effort to stay even this far ahead of him. Lately, he'd taken to running faster than normal, using speed I didn't even know he had. I was still much faster, but there was a quiet urgency to our races nowadays, and not only that, he initiated wrestling matches between us all the time now. There was a new edge to the way he fought, too; he wasn't easy to get a hold of anymore. There was real force to his blows, and he constantly insisted that I try to _expand_ the limits of my physical abilities. Even now, he didn't let up.

_Push yourself, Edward. You should hold onto your speed, your strength, for as long as you can. Try going faster._

I snorted softly, whipping over moonlit ferns and moss-covered rocks. The trees were thinning out. "It's only been seven months," I said over my shoulder. "Shouldn't it be four or five more before you get concerned about that?"

_A year is the usual, yes, but it's a little different for everyone. I've heard of newborns starting to lose their strength as soon as four months in. _

"Well, you still can't keep up, old man, so I don't think I have anything to worry about yet," I chuckled.

All I heard in response was a snort of his own, his mind focusing on increasing his speed to the very limit to push me more, and, yet again, _Paradise Lost. _He didn't use Italian since I'd learned it in was all I heard now whenever he was shrouding his thoughts. I hated the morbid stuff.

_...That in our proper motion we ascend  
Up to our native seat: descent and fall  
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late  
When the fierce Foe hung on our brok'n Rear  
Insulting, and pursu'd us through the Deep,  
With what compulsion and laborious flight- _

But then something slipped.

_-September. He needs to be prepared for the worst- oh, damn. Edward, did you hear that?_

The woods now left behind, I kept silent for a few moments as we began the stretch that took us through countryside strewn with farms. I cut through a grange, holding my breath as I sped by a distant farmhouse, trying to ignore the dreamland whispers of its sleeping occupants. This was our return from a two-day hunt, so I'd already fed and calmed down, but all the same, I didn't feel like taking on the challenge of human scent tonight. We'd been doing that constantly. I slowed to a stop once the sleepy thoughts faded away, the scent downwind.

"Yes, I heard," I told him as he caught up. "But it's not as if I haven't figured out that you're preparing me for something. I just wish you'd quit telling me that there's nothing to worry about when there really is."

I hadn't needed to hear that little slip to know he was afraid of something. After that letter from his ruthless old friend arrived, his ambivalence about how long my newborn stamina lasted wasn't the only thing to disappear. Gone also was the slow, easy timetable to get me used to the scent and presence of humans. It was still a gradual build-up, but much more rapid than he originally planned. And, oddly, he did it without any asking of mine. As early as April he'd gotten me started.

It began not with a postman, but movers coming to get things. He'd stayed upstairs, hovering protectively as they worked while I crouched in the basement, seething with mindless thirst, so close to bursting up through the ceiling and seizing one of those men. It was only by the narrowest victory of control that I managed not to. Admittedly, it was listening to their thoughts- images of their children among them- that gave me the edge over the thirst. A new rug was shredded to pieces instead of the movers.

Next had come running through farm country, like the kind we stood in tonight, passing by the houses and scenting the inhabitants, and then he nudged me along to lingering on the outskirts of tiny towns, eventually wandering into them. These excursions weren't just once or twice a week, but nearly every day. By the end of May, he'd even let me go into Chicago with him once, late at night, to get the last things I wanted from the Magnolia house before we moved here to this new interim place. He was going to have me going into Milwaukee soon.

There was a quiet urgency to everything he planned since that day. And yet he kept insisting...

"There probably _isn't_ anything to worry about," he said now. "I'm sorry for disguising my thoughts on the subject, but it's only because I don't want to worry you needlessly. You already have too much to concentrate on as it is."

I was about to argue, but he was already running again. _Come on, _he urged.

Snuffing out a frustrated growl, I caught up a moment later, but stayed at his pace, beside him.

"Why don't you trust me?" I asked after a few moments.

_I trust you, _came the bruised reply. "It's not a question of trust, unless it's your lack of it in me. Please believe me when I say that I have my reasons."

"Will you tell me sometime, then?"

_Yes, I will. I promise._

We were back in the woods after the next few minutes, and I could already hear the rush of the Milwaukee River. We were almost home- well, as much as any place we'd only be staying in for a year could be called home. He'd found a large cabin on the river, six miles north of tiny Grafton, Wisconsin. It was a secluded, well-situated place where he said we could wait out the rest of my time as a newborn, close enough to Milwaukee where I could "practice" without concern about either of us being recognized. Depending on how I progressed, we'd soon move on somewhere more permanent, where he could go back to practicing medicine.

Sometimes, though, I wondered how much of his reason for choosing this place had to do with the guests we'd receive in September.

I stopped cold when I picked up the scent of the cabin, immediately closing off the flow of air into my lungs. A low growl rippled involuntarily through my chest as a luscious, too-familiar scent beckoned to me.

_Humans._

Not the freshest scent, though. They'd been gone since yesterday, but had clearly been in the cabin. Thieves! It had to be thieves. I could already imagine the terrified looks on their faces after we tracked them down, when they realized who they'd stolen from. They'd better pray they hadn't taken any of the art or antiques-

_If you're thinking it was thieves, it wasn't._

Carlisle had stopped, too, just behind me, and I looked at him in surprise.

"There was more than one thing I've been trying to hide from you recently," he admitted. "I arranged for something to be delivered yesterday, while we were gone."

"What?"

"How do you feel? How's your control right now?"

"Alright," I said, puzzled.

"Take another whiff then," he said with an expectant smile. "See if you can pick up anything else that's different."

I did, curious... the air of summer was delicious, so many rich layers of vital scents, so thick I could practically _feel_ them... I focused on the cabin a mile away, desperate to ignore the most alluring of the odors in it, and detected that there was, indeed, something different. It was probably furniture. The scent was of some kind of wood underneath lacquer, and something metal.

"Is it furniture?"

_Yes and no._ "Why don't you go look?"

"Okay," I said, shrugging, and took off. I couldn't imagine why he'd be so excited for me to see some new piece of furniture, let alone arrange a secret delivery, but I'd go along with it.

My ambivalence didn't last long, though. Before I even got to the river I'd pinpointed the scents- the woods under all that lacquer were birch and maple, and the metal was polished brass, and I sped up when I smelled felt cloth.

In moments I was inside the oversized living room, gazing at a beautiful, brand-new Bush & Lane grand piano. It gleamed bright in the moonlight that poured in through the windows, flawless in every aspect except for the scent of the men who'd delivered it.

It had been, almost literally, a lifetime ago since I'd played music. I'd thought about trying to arrange the shipment of the Steinway I'd grown up playing in the Magnolia house, but had decided against it. It belonged to the house more than to me, a family possession more than personal, and I knew it should stay there. Besides, I didn't dare try playing it- I'd break it for sure.

But this new piano... I hadn't broken anything yet this month. I could try it.

I sat down on the bench and gingerly opened the keyboard, wondering how Carlisle had known. Why would he get this for me? How did he know how much I'd want it? Even I hadn't known how much I wanted to play music again, until this moment. Would I even remember how?

"Happy Birthday," said a quiet voice behind me.

At a loss, I shifted around to face Carlisle, who stood in the doorway. I hadn't told him that today was... well, had once been my birthday.

"How did you know?"

In answer, I saw a glimpse of the typed date on my patient records from St. Luke's.

"I didn't know if you'd want to celebrate," he said guardedly, "but it would have been your eighteenth, after all. Your mother told me that you played. I wasn't sure which brand you might prefer, but it's a local manufacturer, so I thought-"

"I like it very much. Thank you."

He smiled quickly, gladly, and after a brief moment in which his thoughts were more like a jumble of emotion, the Milton started up. This time, though, I knew it wasn't dread about our visitors that he was trying to disguise.

* * *

**September 5, 1919**

I did remember how to play, as it turned out. That night, after a few tentative minutes spent learning how delicately I needed to depress the keys and pedals, appreciating the sweet tones of the perfectly tuned instrument, I played a rag that my fingers must have known very well, but I couldn't remember when I'd learned it. Other melodies flowed out after that, seeming to just appear out of thin air...

It turned out to be kind of unsettling, knowing all this music and not remembering where it came from. I stopped after about a half hour, and spent the rest of the night trying in vain to collect memories that would never come back.

I played more and more often as the summer went by... only when I was calmest.

As of today, the infernal piano was still in pristine condition, but Aaron Barnes was broken.

Hours went by as I huddled in utter stillness on the riverbank, and I didn't notice the time passing until raindrops started pattering on the orange canopy of sugar maples drifting over me with the breeze. I wanted the rain to feel cold, but it never did.

Reluctantly, I roused myself and started for the cabin.

I left my soiled shoes and socks on the porch before going in the doors that opened to the living room, passing by the piano. This room -the only room we really "lived in" in this place, was also where Carlisle had situated his treasures. There was no basement or upper floor. It was well-built enough, with high ceilings and good-sized windows, very nice for a place that had merely served as a retreat for weekend fishermen. Oddly enough, Carlisle's things didn't look at all out of place in it, and neither did the piano.

My room, such as it was, was basically just a place to change clothes. I had very little in it except a desk, on which rested a few notebooks with some of my human memories scribbled into them, a wardrobe of clothes, and some shelves containing a small collection of my old human possessions.

I stood in my room, looking around numbly. I didn't feel like taking a bath right then, so there wasn't any point in changing into fresh clothes, though the ones I had on were completely ruined. I took off the muddy, torn shirt and pitched it into an otherwise empty wastebasket, and then leapt out the window to go to the river.

Carlisle would see I'd been home- that was the only real reason I'd gone to the cabin, anyway. He'd worry if I hadn't been there by the time he got back.

Keeping to the bank, I ran three miles before stopping, listening to the rain battering the surface of the river. I'd come to this place several times now. When we'd started our trips into Milwaukee, Carlisle had also decided it was safe enough for me to be by myself now and again, and this was my favorite spot. It was far enough from the road that I couldn't hear passing cars, and there was a meadow hugging the riverbank.

The summer nights here had been peaceful, for the most part. Sometimes I just came here to be alone, with only my own voice in my head for a change. Sometimes I needed the solitude... not just for serenity, but to ratchet down from a state of extreme thirst, having been teased by the scent of humans all day. It was a good place.

The only animals that didn't seem to mind my scent and got close at all were birds, but they still stuck to the treetops on the other side of the river. They had settled into stillness in the rain tonight, though, resting silent in their perches.

The sky had darkened considerably as evening descended, though the colors of fall were no less vivid to my freakish eyes- and they _were_ freakish. Today had taught me that, yet again. Baseball, birthdays, beer... I didn't belong to that world. My world was now a sleepless place full of secrecy and murderous thirst, strength that was too much for my fragile surroundings, and it was populated by millenia-old vampires who lived in subterranean ruins.

It wasn't just that realization that ruined the peace of my nook tonight. Knowing Carlisle wasn't at the cabin, but somewhere in Milwaukee, cleaning up my mess, made me feel somehow empty, compounding the miserable guilt that still hadn't let go.

It _shouldn't _let go. I'd ruined that boy's life. What was even worse was that - if I were still human - Aaron Barnes as the kind of fellow I would've wanted to befriend...

It was_ that_ thought that started the anger again.

I didn't even have the consolation of being aloof. If I had the luxury of being like any other vampire, Aaron Barnes would be nothing more to me than mere sustenance. I remembered some of Carlisle's words from that first night...

"_The others feel- and I'm sure you do, too- that their humanity is gone..._ _and it's true, to an extent. We are things apart from humanity. How can those who prey on humans be murderers when they're not even human beings anymore? Most vampires don't even know it's possible for them to live without taking human life."_

I didn't have to kill. I still didn't want to. But why couldn't I strive for the same cold distance the rest of my kind took for granted? Maybe there _were_ things I could learn from this Demetri who was coming, and his unknown entourage. Maybe I should just get it over with and go with them, if they invited me.

That's when I heard a subtle movement just over a hundred yards behind me, and something small slicing through the air. Ordinarily I would've responded on instinct and turned aropund ready to attack... but in the same instant I picked up the telltale scents of leather, rubber, cork...

A baseball splashed into the river in front of me. It quickly bobbed to the surface, rotating in an eddy before the current grabbed it.

My morose resolve tightened as I picked up Carlisle's normally comforting scent, and my huddled sitting position solidified. My gaze followed the brand-new ball, though, as it slipped down the Milwaukee. My curiosity got the best of me.

"Will he lose his arm?" I murmured.

___No. He'll never have full use of it again, but he won't lose it._

"The brachial?"

___Intact, luckily, though surgery was needed._

I heard him throw a second baseball, but made no move to intercept it. It sailed over the river and then crashed through a few branches before landing with a _splat_ onto wet ground.

"You?"

_I'm afraid not. There was no excuse I could devise to be alone with him long enough to operate on his arm myself. His friends were too eager to stay by his side. Very helpful, really._

I saw something in his mind similar to what I'd imagined earlier: Aaron, laid out in the backseat of the Peerless, senseless with morphine, but this time there were details my imagination never anticipated. Aaron was covered by my jacket, and Carlisle was in the backseat with him, holding his injured arm in steady position, my tie serving as part of a makeshift sling. It was an anxious Harry at the wheel of the car, driving as fast as he dared, dodging Saturday traffic, and Finny in the passenger seat, leaning over to the back, telling Aaron that everything would be alright...

_I stayed at the hospital long enough to listen after the surgeon started working on him. The boy is in good hands._

Another ball came whizzing by me, right into the river again, closely followed by a fourth and then a fifth, but I still didn't move.

"He won't play pro ball though, will he?"

_No. That he won't do._

I didn't hear anything but the patter of rain for a some moments, and then...

_I know this might sound odd, but how badly you feel about all this... it's a very good sign._

"What?" I muttered incredulously. At the same time, a baseball hit me in the head. Annoyed beyond all reason, I shot to my feet, grabbing the ball that had just hit me. I nearly crushed it in anger, but not before I'd whipped around, sending it back to where it came from. Carlisle stood on the far side of the meadow, drenched, a tin pail full of baseballs beside him. He was wearing a new glove, too, which he moved right in front of his face to catch the ball I just threw.

"Are you insane?" I shouted. "You call this good? Do you have _any_ idea what I'm considering right now?"

"I think I do," came a strong reply. "And you've already decided that you won't kill. Isn't that right?"

Clenching my jaw, I conceded with a few moments' silence before speaking again.

"I can't do what you do, Carlisle. I can't live among them like you can. It didn't even take two innings-"

"What you've accomplished is extraordinary, Edward. You've come so far-"

"Not far enough! I can't take back what I did to him."

"No, you can't." He plucked another ball from the pail and threw it right at my face. I caught the thing reflexively, without meaning to. "But you didn't mean to. It was only a mistake, and he'll recover," Carlisle continued. "He'll still have a full, long life. And it _is_ good that you you feel badly about hurting the boy. It will make you more careful next time."

"There won't be a next time," I snarled, hurling the ball at him. And now, at last, he paid for all his encouragement that I keep up my newborn strength. The thing moved too fast for him to catch _or_ dodge, and exploded against his chest into a cloud of cork dust and torn leather. The impact actually made him stumble back a step, and I instantly regretted it.

I cast my gaze down and blinked a few times, shedding raindrops that had settled on my lashes, as Carlisle regained his posture.

"It was my mistake, too," he said softly, after a long moment. "You've been doing so well... I let it cloud my judgment. It was too much for one day. I shouldn't have encouraged you."

"Don't turn this around on yourself," I muttered. "It was my doing. You shouldn't feel guilty-"

"Yes, I should," he argued, picking up another ball. He tossed it up once, catching it. "And so should you."

He threw the ball then- _hard_. I barely managed to catch it, and the velocity made my arm vibrate on impact. I looked at him warily.

"Take the regret and learn from it, Edward, but you can't let it discourage you like this. This isn't the only mistake you'll make, I guarantee it," he said. "If guilt ruled my actions, I would never have continued to practice medicine. I've seen patients on the verge of dying from some horrible injury, knowing my speed would save them, but there were too many witnesses present for me to use it. People _died_ because I deliberately held back. Is that something I should feel guilty about? You tell me."

"No," I said, blanching. "You can't help it if-"

"Can't I?" he interrupted, his gaze flaring. "Is protecting my secret worth a life?"

His troubled gaze gave me pause, and I looked down. I hadn't thought of that before. I guessed I could see why he'd feel guilty sometimes... but it shouldn't cripple him. Not when he sacrificed his very nature to do so much good. Of all people, I knew what that sacrifice involved.

"I guess it's natural to feel regret," I murmured, "but you can't quit just because you have to hold back sometimes. If you revealed what you are, you'd jeopardize whatever chance you have of helping the ones you _can_ save."

"Exactly." His features smoothed instantly. "You made a mistake, Edward, but it was only a mistake. Think of everything else you've been able to do. You're a newborn vampire..." he trailed off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "Only ten months into this existence... and since only your eighth month you've been able to be in cities, and you still haven't taken a life. It's miraculous. Don't throw it away. You can't let this boy's broken arm jeopardize your chance to find _your_ better purpose."

I stared at the wet ground beneath my bare feet as his point sank in, unable to decide if I should be angry or grateful that he'd trapped me so easily. After a few moments of stewing, though, I came the conclusion that there was nowhere to channel my frustration, because he was right.

But it couldn't be that easy. I couldn't let it be.

"I want to pay his hospital bill," I murmured.

_Now that's reasonable._ "I'm sure his family would appreciate that."

"And continue to cover the expenses of rehabilitation."

"It will be an extensive healing process, so, again, they would likely be grateful for the help."

"His brother was injured in the war somehow. I want to help if he has any medical needs, too."

"That can be arranged."_ I know which people to contact._

I snorted softly, looking at Carlisle's pail full of new baseballs. He must have cleaned out the sporting goods store in town.

"So I guess you decided you like baseball, huh?" I murmured, tossing him the ball I'd kept hold of.

"It's growing on me," he said, making the catch and throwing it back to me. "Maybe you could give me some pointers sometime?"

"Okay."

We threw back and forth a few more times, neither of us making it challenging for the other. There was no running, no false throws; just a game of catch. Mind-numblingly simple, but soothing, somehow.

"You know, my father and I had these matching Cubs shirts, from the year they had the pinstriped uniforms," I said, after a little while. "We used to wear them to games at Weeghman."

"Sounds like a pleasant tradition," he said with a small smile and a catch, throwing back to me.

I nodded. "They're still back in Chicago, at the house."

"Would you like to go get yours sometime?"

"Well, yes, but the reason I brought it up is... I think his would fit you, if you'd like it."

I threw the ball to Carlisle, and it took a few moments for him to return it.

___I'd like that very much._


	12. Rude Realms Far Above

_A/N: Here it is: the long,__ long _overdue new chapter of MLY. Thank you so much to the readers who've been so patient and understanding during the dry spell. I appreciate it more than I can say. I hope you enjoy this.  


* * *

Chapter 11 – Rude Realms Far Above

_In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, _  
_And the roof-lamp's oily flame _  
_Played down on his listless form and face, _  
_Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, _  
_Or whence he came. _

_Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy, _  
_Our rude realms far above, _  
_Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete _  
_This region of sin that you find you in, _  
_But are not of?_

- from _Midnight on the Great Western_ by Thomas Hardy

* * *

_September 8, 1919_

The corner of Carlisle's mouth twitched in amusement, and he glanced up at me from a recent issue of the Journal of the American Medical Association.

_That's too fast. _

"Mozart's dead," I replied dryly, "and even if he wasn't, I don't think he'd care." But I slowed my fingers to the prescribed meter anyway. The truth was, I'd barely been paying attention to the concerto. The rest of the instruments played in my head, accompanying me... I didn't even notice I'd sped it up. I was preoccupied. We both were.

"You're right," Carlisle replied. "He probably wouldn't mind at all. Mozart was very... irreverent."

My gaze whipped up. "Did you-"

"No, no. I never met him."

"How do you know what his character was, then?"

"By reputation," he chuckled. "Tales of his exploits were often repeated at society gatherings, especially where artists and musicians were present. But one had only to be familiar with his music outside the standard repertoire, really. For example, he wrote lyrics for a little party song called _Leck __mich im Arsch_."

"No Deutsch," I reminded him. English, Latin, French, and 18th century Italian? Yes. German? Not yet.

"Literally, it translates to _Lick Me in the Ass._"

I snorted out a surprised chuckle.

"I know," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Austrians had a very bawdy sense of humor back then. Mozart's compositions are so grand, though... very busy..." His gaze flickered to me. _And I can't help but notice that you play them when you're anxious about something._

"No, I don't."

_If you say so. _He smirked, looking back at the JAMA.

Did I? I suppose I didn't really need to ask myself that. "Busy" was the perfect adjective for so much of Mozart's stuff, and I guess I did tend to play it when I was tense. It wasn't the Mozart that bothered me to admit to, though. It was being anxious. I'd been making every effort to seem relaxed and ready. It hadn't worked, evidently.

I wasn't the only one who was tense, though- not this morning. Carlisle was trying just as hard as I was to distract himself, and, also like me, he was failing. He wasn't truly absorbed by his reading, or the music. On this cool, fall morning, which was still mostly dark, we were both focused primarily on the earliest birdsong pouring in through double doors that were opened to the cabin's wrap-around porch, waiting for other noises to mix in with it...

But he had a point. My hyperactive rendition of Mozart's K. 482, a Piano Concerto in E flat, wasn't helping anything. I let the background orchestration fade away from my mind and bridged into B flat, changing the tempo to 6/4 time, seeking something else... something soothing... and Chopin's familiar Nocturne opus 9, no. 1, started pouring out. A touch melancholy, but contemplative, warm...

_Lovely choice. I've always liked that one._

I smirked. "I don't suppose you know if Chopin ever composed anything called _Lick Me in the Ass_, do you?"

It was his turn to laugh this time.

And that's the moment things changed, at least for me. Carlisle was still chuckling, and I kept playing, but my grin faded... it was both disturbing and exhilarating to recognize something so completely, without ever experiencing it before.

Looking through the mind's eye of a human was like stepping into a sort of time machine that could show me what my own mortal vision must have been like- the muted colors, blurred edges... the near-sightedness of it. And human thought patterns were usually disorganized, tinged with lack of clarity. Concentration took effort for so many of them to begin with, let alone concentrating on many things at once.

But what I could hear now was wholly different: sharp, fast, and multi-faceted... like Carlisle, but not him at all. Four distinctly different minds... still just faint murmurs at this distance, but it was unmistakeably _us._

I couldn't understand what they were thinking, at least not verbally. Whatever language they were thinking in was unfamiliar to me. I hadn't heard Carlisle ever use it, either. It sounded Russian, maybe...? No, now it sounded more Germanic... wait... except one. There was one of them thinking in English, but his mental energy wasn't verbal so much as visual, and what struck me was how _panicky_ it seemed.

After a few moments, the meaning of his jumpy thoughts dawned on me, and it wasn't anything like what I'd imagined I might see or hear as our visitors approached- and I'd done plenty of imagining.

"Edward, do you hear something?" Carlisle asked softly, noticing my vacant stare.

I nodded. My being resonated at their proximity, as if it knew its own kind.

"There are four," I murmured, answering his next unspoken question. I paused then, focusing my gaze on him. "Three are thinking in a foreign language, though. It sounds Slavonic."

_I'm not surprised. They're prepared, of course. _

"But one of them is thinking in English, and... it's strange, but it sounds like he's_ scared _of coming here."

Carlisle's brow furrowed in confusion. _Can you tell why?_

"Not really... it's as if he's convinced that something terrible will happen to him when they get here, but he's not sure what."

_That doesn't make sense_. "No member of the Volturi would have reason to fear us."

"That's just it, though. He doesn't seem to be thinking of the others as companions," I said, concentrating on the English-speaking vampire's mind. I tried diving into his sight; they were still a little too far away for me to do it effectively, but I managed to get a few glimpses. He was in the backseat of a car, his gaze flitting nervously from the road to the woods, which were heavy with early morning mist. "It's almost as if he's not one of the coven."

Just then we both heard something physical, and I left the vampire's sight. Wheels were humming on asphalt, a well-oiled engine running smoothly... thirty seconds later came the crunch of gravel beneath tires as a large car turned onto the road leading to the cabin. They were only three quarters of a mile away now.

Very faintly, we both heard a female voice sigh with, "At last."

Even at this distance, through the music and noise of the car, it sounded like the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard, and my fingers instantly softened the notes of Chopin's Nocturne. Her voice was chiming and ethereal, and I wanted to hear more of it. I picked out her mind from the others... it wasn't quite the same as hearing her speaking voice, though, and it was too bad she was thinking in that Slavic tongue.

Carlisle noticed the difference in my playing and smiled. _Enchanting, isn't it?_

I nodded, my gaze wide with wonder.

_The first time I heard the voice of a female of our kind, I was just as entranced. _

"Do they all sound like that?"

_Shhh. _He put a finger up to his lips. _ Each in their own way, yes, but the novelty wears off quickly, believe me._

Her gossamer voice was heard again, this time with a soft, knowing giggle, and it wasn't alone. Another voice, male, chuckled with her. They must have heard me and known exactly what I'd been talking about.

_Well, that's the last time I'll make that mistake,_ I thought, chagrined. Of course they'd be able to hear us now, too.

_It's alright, Edward. _Carlisle reassured me, rising. _Just keep playing, _he instructed, strolling out to the porch, readying to greet our guests. He settled into stillness with his arms draped in front, hands folded, and slipped into _Paradise Lost_.

Again?! Damn it. What was his fixation with that thing? I really needed to tell him to find something new to start reciting. I'd never even read it, but wouldn't need to at this rate. What volume was he on now? The eleventh?

I couldn't see him fully- just the edge of his form- but his posture reminded me of how a sentry might look, at the ready for any little thing. I saw the car approaching the cabin through Carlisle's eyes... a shiny new brick-red Packard. The headlights were off, despite the hour.

I came to the end of the nocturne and just started it again, listening to the car pull up and park outside. I latched onto the English-speaker's vision as he stepped out of the vehicle with the others. His gaze fastened right away on Carlisle, whose stance looked more relaxed from that angle. He was smiling pleasantly in welcome.

_His eyes are so different, _the scared one thought._ I don't like it. Is he the one? What is this place? _

Despite his anxiety, there was something about the way he thought that felt so _kindred..._ more than the others. It was starting to bother me that he was afraid of us. He glanced nervously at his three fashionably dressed companions- two male, one female. They were just like me in so many ways: the absence of color in their luminescent skin, the perfected forms. And beyond that, I recognized them from Carlisle's memories of Volterra.

Demetri, of course. We knew he'd be one of them. Carlisle had never actually seen him work- only the results of it. Demetri was reputed to be the best tracker in existence, and the gift that granted him that skill wasn't unrelated to my own. He couldn't hear specific thoughts, but once he met someone, vampire or human, he could feel the unique signature of their mind. And once he felt it, he was able to discern that mind from all others within hundreds of miles, and find it. There was no such thing as getting away from him. Like the other male, Demetri was dressed in a luxurious flannel suit, but had soft-looking features, almost Gallic, but his thoughts were just a touch sharper than the others.

The large, dark-haired male I recognized as Santiago. Some of Carlisle's knowledge of newborn vampires had come from watching him "grow up." As a mortal, Santiago had the unfortunate, and very unique, experience of accidentally discovering part of the Volturi's lair. His status as a resident of Volterra gave him a chance, though, to be turned and join instead of being made a meal of. He had extraordinary strength, but no special talents beyond that. The only other thing I knew about Santiago was that he had a penchant for violent literature.

And the woman... Chelsea. So _exquisite_. More lovely than her voice, if that was possible. Her ebony hair was pinned up intricately with jeweled combs, and her lissome, ivory form was adorned by a dress layered with lavender silk and lace.

Her presence was as unexpected as it was mesmerizing. In Carlisle's memories of the Volturi she had never figured prominently, though he was aware of her status as one of the first members of the coven. She always seemed to hover silently, but beautifully, on the periphery of happenings within Volterra, along with her mate, Afton. I didn't even know what talent it was that made her so valuable to the Volturi.

But Carlisle evidently did. I clearly heard a dismayed thought as he took in the sight of her. He broke out of the Milton for one fleeting moment-

_So that's how it's going to be, is it, Aro?_

I abandoned the unfamiliar vampire's sight for Carlisle's... the other fellow's vision was currently latched onto the woods as he listened to the birds, some of the song unfamiliar to him, and I wanted a better look at Chelsea.

"Carlisle," she exclaimed, flashing a warm smile as she glided up the porch stairs. "It's been far too long. How we've missed you!" One of her gloved hands slid into his, and Carlisle bowed in gentlemanly fashion.

"Chelsea. I'm honored you've chosen to visit us. I hope it wasn't too out of the way," he said, alluding to the relieved words we'd overheard.

"Not at all," she replied. "Please forgive my comment; it had nothing to do with your location- just the mode of travel. These automobiles are such confining vehicles; I don't think I shall ever get used to them. But we must blend in, at least for this part of our journey."

_Not with those eyes,_ I thought. They were pure crimson. I wondered if they could let themselves be seen in daylight by humans at all, under cloud cover or not. I couldn't, before my eyes had finally started looking more like Carlisle's.

"I daresay Cullen could give us _all_ a lesson in blending in," Demetri said, taking his turn to greet Carlisle. "He does it so well."

"Welcome, Demetri," Carlisle said with a smile, shaking his hand. "Automobiles have actually made my lifestyle a good deal easier, so I don't mind them. Unlike horses, they don't panic and run away when I approach."

Santiago chuckled and came up to Carlisle with a genuinely glad smile, and despite the foreign language of his thoughts, I detected true admiration as he greeted his host.

"And those horses are wise to flee your presence, since you're one of the few of our kind who has a tendency to feed on four-legged animals." He clamped one massive hand firmly on Carlisle's shoulder. "It is so very good to see you."

"And you, Santiago. It looks like time in the coven has treated you well."

"Very much so," the vampire replied.

"And I see you've brought someone new," Carlisle said, turning his gaze to the one who was still hovering next to the Packard, at last giving me a good look at him. The others hadn't been paying visual attention to him at all. He was dressed in a suit cut similarly to that of the other two males', but it was tweed instead of flannel, and hung too loosely on him. He was young- probably younger than I was when I'd died- and had ginger-colored hair and darkish, thirsty eyes, which were wide and tense. He was ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

"Yes. A refugee from the conflicts we've just put an end to," Demetri spoke up. "We're certain that the triad would like to meet him, so it was necessary, I'm afraid, to bring him along. He'll be no trouble."

"I see," Carlisle said, and then broke out of the Milton, this time intentionally. _This one must be gifted._ _It happens every once in a while. If they come across a lawbreaker who has a special talent, they will offer a choice: join the coven, or suffer the same fate as any other lawbreaker. But only the triad can make that offer, so they need to get him to Italy. He's not a refugee, Edward. He's a prisoner._

"I still think we should have sent him along with the others," Chelsea said, and then addressed Carlisle in explanation. "Our ship to Cherbourg doesn't sail until Saturday morning, but with our work done, Jane was impatient to put as little distance between herself and Volterra as possible. Afton has escorted her to New York ahead of us to do some sightseeing and dine before the voyage."

"Jane?"

"I thought Aro might have told you about his newest prizes," she replied, amused. "He loves to show them off. Twins; Jane and Alec, they're known as now. He had his eye on them since well before turning the pair- which he had to do, by the way, sooner than he would have preferred. But they've proven to be indisposable. Only Jane was sent with us on this expedition, though, and I'm afraid she hasn't taken well to being away from her brother."

At the mention of this Jane, the young one by the car nearly jumped out his skin, at least in his mind. His gaze locked onto the inhabitants of the porch swiftly, flickering with waves of visceral memories that shocked out of his mind into mine. I saw them as clearly as I saw him through Carlisle's sight right then, as clearly as the living room I stared at over the piano... three places layered in my sight at once, one of them the image of a small vampire standing on the edge of a cornfield at night...

_She couldn't have been older than fourteen when changed: a porcelain doll with blood-red eyes, clad in a black ritual cloak... I recognized it as the garb worn by the upper echelon of the Volturi guard when on assignment... Demetri was by her side in a matching robe, and the young vampire knew the other three were behind him.  
_

_"Please demonstrate what's going to happen to him if he tries running away again," Demetri said to her._

_The captive had seen the effect her gaze had on the other members of his coven... the strange fits of paralysis that had seized them, the look of sheer agony on their faces. He was the only one left. The others had all been destroyed- torn apart and burned to ash by the ones called Santiago and Afton- while Jane's gaze held them down in torment. _

_When his coven had been slaughtered, he'd run. He knew the destroyers would follow, but still he'd run. He ran for days and nights that turned into a week, and then another week, hoping his speed would leave them behind... and every time he thought he had lost them, he would get a whiff of Demetri in unrelenting pursuit. He never even got the chance to slow down enough to hunt. Finally, in a fit of despair and near-madness wrought by thirst, loss and confusion, he stopped, prepared to meet his end._

_But his end wasn't to be at Demetri's hands. Demetri simply took him prisoner and then rendezvouzed with the others after two days' journey. And now, as Jane's serene, blood-red gaze settled on him, he prepared for death... _

These memories took mere moments to unfold in his mind, and the pain itself he only let himself remember for a split second, but the blinding torment wrought by Jane's "gift" was enough to make me flinch, even though I only experienced it vicariously. It was fortunate that the nocturne I was playing called for a full rest at that precise moment. If my hands hadn't been off the keys, I might have made an actual _mistake_ and hit a wrong note. They _all_ would have heard it and wondered what brought it on. That pain... my God...

_It rivaled the burn of transformation. He lost all sense of time and anything outside the physical agony of it... the burning... acid and flames consuming every inch of him, inside and out..._

_And then it was over just as quickly as it started. The pain was gone, his senses were fully restored, and he realized he was utterly unharmed. It had all been an illusion, a trick of the little she-devil's mind... but a trick there was no outwitting. He opened his eyes to the pair, wondering why they hadn't killed him._

_"Our master would like to meet you," Jane said with a small smile. "You'll be coming with us."_

_"Don't make me come after you again," Demetri said dispassionately. "If you do, the fire will be very real next time."_

The memory faded, leaving me in Carlisle's sight, trained on the browbeaten vampire hovering by the car.

"It's a pity we didn't get to meet her," he said to Chelsea.

_No, it's not, _I thought, wondering what he'd say about Jane's "gift" when I told him about it.

He stepped off the porch, approaching the young one with a steady, calm demeanor.

"Hello," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Carlisle Cullen. Welcome." The vampire glanced distrustfully at the offered hand, and his thirsty gaze shifted off to the woods again. Carlisle pocketed his hand, unperturbed. "It's alright," he said quietly. "You have nothing to fear in our home."

There was a pause as the newcomer examined the cabin, listening to the music. The place looked inviting to him.

"You live here?" he asked hesitantly.

"Only for a short while, but it's where Edward and I hang our hats for now. That's him playing the piano."

The trio of vampires on the porch were watching the two of them with almost as much interest as I was. There was an air of expectation to the way the patterns of their thoughts quieted, subdued... as if in waiting.

The prisoner's gaze settled back on Carlisle, and, like I once had, he was starting to sense a total lack of malevolence in the strange-eyed creature in front of him.

"I know something of the wars in the south," Carlisle told him solemnly. "Were you born into one of the fighting covens? Recruited?"

The red-haired boy nodded once, ever so slightly.

"That must have been trying. What's your name?"

"Fletcher," he murmured. _This one's not like the others... but he's one of them, isn't he? He can't be the one the tracker was talking about, or he wouldn't have to ask my name. Still, though... maybe he'll tell me. "_Why am I here?"

"They haven't told you?"

Fletcher glanced nervously at the vampires on the porch, wondering if he was at liberty to say... but decided to risk it. "Only that I'm... supposed to meet their master."

"Your escorts are old friends of mine," Carlisle explained quietly, and I recognized the soothing tone he often used when speaking to terminally ill patients. "They're only stopping here for a visit before you all continue to Italy. There you'll meet the head of their coven. You have nothing to fear from me, or from Edward, I promise."

_Italy? _Combined with his surprise at the location Carlisle had disclosed, I saw the exchange had triggered something from Fletcher's memory, and it couldn't have taken place longer than an hour ago- I recognized the starlit farmland outside the Packard's windows.

_From his seat in the back, the captive vampire could see Demetri's face reflected in the glass of the windshield as he drove. _

_"If I were you, I'd be careful about anything you might be considering, even in silence," Demetri said. "We'll find out what it is. Where we're going, there's a mindreader who will see and hear everything you think." _

_Fletcher's gaze retreated to his own window again as he kept silent, wondering if it was true..._

"They said he can hear my thoughts," he said to Carlisle.

"Yes. And he can hear theirs as well," Carlisle replied with a smirk. "And mine. Edward hears all the thoughts happening around him."

Fletcher's thoughts were suddenly scrambling to devise a way to silence themselves.

_Anything but _Paradise Lost_! _I wanted to shout.

It didn't matter. He wasn't going to be able to do it. Silencing his thoughts wasn't really an option, since it was impossible to simply _cease_ to think, and experience with Carlisle had taught me that it took a calm mind and substantial concentration to effectively disguise one's thoughts in my presence. Fletcher was too agitated for that.

I wondered what his gift was. No one was specifying it in their mind at the moment- not even him. Not even visual hints came through from the three Volturi. Whatever it was, it hadn't obviously been enough to help Fletcher get away from Demetri, but it must have been powerful enough to be useful to them.

"Where are you from?" Carlisle asked him.

"I was in Louisiana when I was... recruited. But before that I lived in Vermont."

"When did it happen? Your change?"

_Which change would that be? _The bitter reply formed in Fletcher's mind as he answered aloud. "A little over two years ago."

While Carlisle and Fletcher spoke, a separate conversation started among the trio on the porch. They were using the same cadence and tone, too quiet for mortal ears, that Carlisle and I used when speaking privately in the presence of humans. Any nearby vampire who was paying attention would still understand what they were saying, of course, but their tone made the discussion seem like inconsequential background chatter.

"There, you see?" Santiago murmured to Chelsea. "This was clearly the better option. _Stregone_ _Benefici_ is just what the newling needed to be put at ease for the rest of the journey."

"We're not visiting this place to put him at ease," she responded. "He can only complicate matters."

"The complications would have been worse in New York if he'd decided to try getting away from Jane and Afton," Demetri said. "There's no telling what kind of trouble he might have caused in the city."

Chelsea grudgingly acknowledged his point with silence, but one of the streams of foreign words in her head sped up, as if stewing with an unspoken argument.

"Please, will you come in with us?" Carlisle asked Fletcher.

Feeling somewhat more secure, but still on guard, the young vampire nodded, and closely followed Carlisle up to the cabin, avoiding the gazes of his captors. I abandoned my mentor's sight then, needlessly staring at my hands trilling along the keyboard. It was still Chopin, but I'd moved on to Nocturne no. 14 in F# minor.

Even if I hadn't been able to hear them come in, I still would have felt their blood-red eyes on me as they all gathered in our living room, collectively deciding to stand back and listen to me play the rest of the nocturne. The three Volturi studiously kept their unspoken words shrouded in the other language, but the tenor of those words was palpably attentive. With a small surge of pride, I realized they were admiring the music.

"Such lovely playing," Chelsea murmured to Carlisle after a few moments. "Did he just recently learn?"

"Not at all. Edward was an accomplished musician before I knew him," was the reply.

I almost said something contradictory, but thought the better of it and kept playing. It's just that "accomplished" might not have been the most accurate description of my piano playing as a human. The truth was, I didn't remember exactly how proficient I'd been before. I didn't have memories of performing for anyone but small groups of family and friends at home, at a Christmas party for Masen & Associates one year, and there was a blur of two childhood performances that looked supiciously like student recitals at school. It didn't seem like anything particularly accomplished.

Earlier that summer, on the night which would have been my eighteenth birthday, some ragtime had come back to me easily enough, then a Debussy prelude called _Des pas sur la Neige, _and a Liszt sonata. The Liszt even sparked a new memory, making me remember that I'd had to practice that piece for a few months before I really had it down. It presented no difficulty whatsoever that night, though. My nimble fingers could have played it at ten times the prescribed meter, and still have felt unoccupied. I composed a more complex variation on the spot. On our last trip into Chicago, in August, I'd picked up stacks of sheet music that were stuffed into the piano bench at the Magnolia house, and spent the next day perusing them. There were works of varying dificulty from a plethora of composers and songwriters, contemporary and classical alike, but nothing notoriously difficult except Beethoven's _Hammerklavier. _It hadn't been handled much, either- there were no giveaway fingermarks at the corners of the pages, no creases or folds. I wondered if I'd even attempted it.

It certainly wasn't any challenge to me now, though. No piece of music was. All I had to do was take a perfunctory look at the sheet music, set it aside, and then play it. My human memories of learning how to play were sometimes arduous, so the ease with which I could do it now almost seemed like cheating.

But I _did_ have to think just a little bit about the Chopin right then, at least enough to make sure I kept the tones as subdued as they should sound. There were about fifteen other things going through my mind- five of them being other minds. There was so much more to them than human minds, especially when the Slavic dropped away from one "voice."

_Such a handsome specimen, _Chelsea thought. _And so talented. It's easy to see why Carlisle chose you, __Edward. Even as a mortal, I daresay your qualities would have shone through._

I had to resist the impulse to look up and speak. But, keeping in mind that I had to be guarded in my interaction with these... people, I only let a small smile out, and nodded just a little to let her know I'd heard.

When it was over, the group applauded, and my gaze settled on them at last as I stood to issue a bow, wearing as relaxed of a smile as I could muster.

Santiago regarded me with a satisfied air when he saw my almost completely topaz eyes, while Fletcher simply looked confused. Everything about his surroundings felt foreign to him. He was utterly lost.

"That was excellent," Demetri said with his smooth, warm voice, approaching me with a friendly smile. As he took my hand to shake it, his Slavic disappeared for a moment, too. _Tell me, is Monsieur Chopin one of your favorites? Both pieces were of his composition, were they not?_

"Yes, and I do enjoy his work, especially the nocturnes."

"So it's true," he replied. "You really do hear our thoughts _verbatim_."

I frowned, now realizing he'd merely asked his questions mentally to gauge my ability, and he chuckled at my expression.

"I apologize," he said. "Please forgive my rudeness. We're just all so curious about what we've heard."

My gaze flickered to Carlisle for a moment.

_It's alright. It's better to be forthcoming,_ he advised me calmly.

I confirmed Demetri's assessment with a slight nod before speaking. "And what, may I ask, is the language you've all been thinking in? It sounds Slavic in origin."

"Silesian," Chelsea responded cheerfully, shimmering up to me with a gloved hand extended for me to take. "_Ciao, Eduardo_. Please, if I may ask, is it a sufficient shield? It would be a shame if we'd concentrated on using such a little-spoken language only to find that you could hear through it all along."

"I admit, it's effective," I replied, looking down at her with a lopsided smile, and took the hand she offered. She really was _stunning_.

"You don't hold it against us for guarding our privacy, I hope?" she said.

I shook my head, releasing her hand. "I wouldn't care for it if a stranger could hear my every thought, either. If I could, I'd choose _not_ to hear the thoughts of those around me. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be a way to shut it off."

"Such a powerful gift must be helpful, though," Demetri said, looking away to Carlisle with narrowed eyes. "Especially to someone who lives so constantly with humans, and would want to know if they had developed certain _suspicions_ about him."

All gazes followed Demetri's to my mentor, except Santiago's, who looked put out with Demetri. It didn't take mindreading to realize that an accusation had been made... perhaps even more than one. Was Demetri implying only that Carilsle's way of life was too risky in terms of potential exposure to humans? Or also that Carlisle's real interest in me was merely to use my ability for his own benefit? Either way, Carlisle didn't seem ruffled.

"Yes, well, I've managed so far without the aid of a mindreader," he responded pleasantly.

"Which is more than can be said about those of us in Volterra," Santiago bristled. "Aro's gift has certainly helped us avoid detection more than once."

_"Verissimo," _Demetri conceded, inclining his head in a slight bow as Santiago made his way to meet me.

"Edward, is it?" he asked. I nodded, and he took my hand in both of his for a warm shake. "I'm very glad to meet you." _I never understood why Cullen insisted on making such strange choices for himself, _he confided, _but admired his determination. It's amusing to see the others' expectations so confounded. _

I looked at Santiago inquisitively, a silent question; _which expectations were those exactly_? He smiled.

_It was considered all but impossible that he could have successfully initiated any newborn into his way of feeding. They didn't expect to see you with eyes so like his, let alone seeming so content. If I may ask, has he been _completely_ successful? Did you make any... mistakes?_

I shook my head... but I wasn't without victims, was I? There was Aaron Barnes, but, of course, that wasn't the kind of "mistake" he was referring to.

"Amazing," he said, turning to Carlisle. "Congratulations. A true _coup de maitre._"

"It can't really be that unprecedented," I scoffed. I'd always thought that Carlisle was probably exaggerating my accomplishment.

"Oh, yes it is, except for Cullen himself, of course. The other animal feeders started out like the rest of us."

I shot a surprised, half-accusing glare at my sire. All this time I'd thought that we were alone among our kind. Now here Santiago is, saying there's more of us?!

_It's true- there are a very few others, _Carlisle said silently, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. _Don't worry. I was planning on introducing you to the Alaskan coven when you were a little further along. _

"You two really only feed on animals?" Fletcher blurted, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He'd been sticking to Carlisle's side as the introductions went on, coming to grips with the fact that not only were we _not _part of the Volturi, but the most peculiar vampires he'd ever met. "Is that why your eyes are so different?"

"Yes, isn't it strange?" Chelsea answered before I could, gazing at me. "It is a lovely effect, the color, but a bit redundant. Such a fortunate physical characteristic; the humans would be so much easier to lure. But then, why would you want to lure them when all you're going to do is turn around and run off to find some vile, furred animal to dine on instead?"

Fletcher blanched. "That's revolting."

"Even more astounding, Cullen here actually labors at doctoring the mortals. He masquerades as a physician in their hospitals," Santiago added.

"I beg to disagree," Carlisle said. "I _am_ a physician. It's the incidental role of a human that's the masqerade."

Fletcher looked up at Carlisle with a mix of disbelief and awe.

"That's impossible," he muttered.

"It's not," I said quietly. "He was my doctor when I was dying of the flu."

_But... no. That's can't be true. You can't live like that. _

"Yes, we can. And we do."

_It must be agony. _

I couldn't lie. It _was _agony. So I nodded once, and Fletcher's eyes filled with horror and pity for me, and his precarious feeling of security around Carlisle vanished. My predicament suddenly seemed much worse to him than his own.

_Why don't you run away? You could get away from him, couldn't you? _

I almost couldn't resist chuckling, but managed to keep it back, and strolled up to him to shake his hand.

"I'm sure you've figured it out by now, but I'm Edward."

"Fletcher." He stared up at me earnestly. _If you've really seen what I've been thinking about since we got here, then you know by now that I don't have anything to lose. If you want, I'll try to help you escape the animal drinker._

I couldn't laugh, and not just because he was so sincere, but I'd also been thinking about Demetri's warning to him in the car before they arrived:

_"If I were you, I'd be careful about anything you might be considering, even in silence... we'll find out what it is... there's a mindreader who will see and hear everything you think." _

Demetri must have realized Fletcher would recall the warning, and I'd see it in his mind. So was it a double warning to me? _You're obliged to tell us, Edward. He's a lawbreaker, and if you help him by keeping any of his rebellious thoughts to yourself, you're complicit. _

Was I? I wished there was some way I could ask Carlisle. Would I be in legitimate trouble if I kept Fletcher's thoughts about escape- _any_ escape- quiet? Probably.

Well, I still wasn't going to mention anything about Fletcher's little idea, but I was all too aware of the sticky situation we were in. Oddly enough, although Fletcher was the one with real experience of the darker nature of the Volturi, he wasn't anything like aware of the problems that might be created by his confiding in me about such things. He knew it might endanger himself, but he wasn't thinking about the ramifications for others. I needed to come up with a way to tell him.

In the meantime, letting go of our handshake, I replied to his thought as best I could without giving away to the others what he'd suggested.

"It's good to meet you. I realize that Carlisle's diet isn't appealing, but he doesn't demand it of anyone but himself. I chose it freely."

His brow furrowed. "You _like_ it?"

"I wouldn't say 'like' is the right word," I said with a shrug. "But it's adequate nourishment."

"How long have you been playing?" Demetri asked. He'd been examining the Bush & Lane, fingering the keys and looking at the sheet music on the rack.

"I couldn't say. My mother started teaching me when I was a child, but I don't remember exactly what age."

"Demetri plays beautifully, too," Chelsea said. "He plays the lute and violin, and he's very proficient with the cello and the flute, as well as-"

"A number of other instruments that one might learn to play in the course of nine hundred years," Demetri finished modestly. "But I do love music, and there's no better place to study it than in our halls in Volterra."

"I learn well enough here," I replied.

"Obviously, yes. You're quite skilled. But I don't mean the act of simply reading music and playing it. Forgive me, but the months I've spent here in America have made it amply clear that there's a distinct lack of, shall we say, refined entertainments. Where are your Puccinis and Mahlers? The Dubussys and Vaughn Williams? It's not so desloate in Europe. For us, you see, it's not a question of finding a good concert, but deciding which one to attend. And there are lectures and gatherings- it's fascinating to hear music theory explained by its greatest practitioners."

"I think you're underestimating what's available here. There are some outstanding composers," I argued. "Also, I've heard that our popular songs and modern forms of music are catching on in Europe. I read that Sousa toured there with great success. I wouldn't be surprised if you know a few rags yourself. Besides, and I hope _you'll_ forgive me... from what I understand about your purpose here in the States, it isn't good music you've been busy hunting down."

I tried to ignore the spate of bitter memories my statement evinced in Fletcher's mind while Demetri smiled smugly.

"Of course. But it's easy enough to gauge the culture of the locales we find ourselves in, even while on assignment."

"That's true," Santiago said. "Outside the cities there wasn't much advertised in the way of concerts and such. There was frequent chatter about something called vaudeville, though, but what that is, I don't know."

"_Avanspettacolo,_" Carlisle explained. _"Varieta."_

"Ah, I see. Well, at least that is alive and well here."

"Hardly adequate entertainment for cultivated minds," Demetri said. "You should hear Caius on the subject of variety acts..."

As he went on, I was struck by a deluge of very fuzzy, dim memories from Fletcher- _human_ memories he was losing himself in, sparked by the word "vaudeville." There were audiences, the smell of popcorn and caramel, tiny platforms on steamboats, small theaters and outdoor stages, make-up and costumes, laughter and dancing and applause. There were flashes of odd, cramped living quarters, singing bawdy songs, drinking games, and a pug-nosed brunette he shared the stage and a bed with... the soft panting and pleasurable things they did in that bed...

"You were in a vaudeville troupe when you were a human?" I asked. That didn't seem right. He looked a little too young for the kind of life I saw him leading... but, then again, it wasn't unheard of.

Fletcher was caught a little off-guard by the question, and it didn't help when everyone else's attention fell on him with expressions of interest. He shrugged uncomfortably and nodded.

Chelsea's voice rang in peals of delighted laughter. "Oh, that's wonderful! It certainly explains where your gift came from."

"He should demonstrate it for our hosts," Santiago said. "It really is something else," he praised, turning to Carlisle. "We've never seen anything like it."

Fletcher's expression crumpled in dread. _But it hurts._

Intensely curious, I searched his thoughts; he _was_ thinking of his gift, but I couldn't understand what it was I was seeing. There were memories of a clearing seen through squinted eyes, surrounded by vines and large-leafed greenery... he lay curled up with strange, bone-splitting pain... and then the pain ending... Fletcher getting up as if nothing was wrong.

That's all. It didn't seem like any kind of gift, let alone have anything to do with vaudeville.

"What do you say, Fletcher?" Demetri said with a devilish smirk, and though he was looking straight at Fletcher, he nodded in my direction, as if suggesting something about me. "Since you're a performer, why don't you perform your little trick for our hosts?"

Fletcher's gaze flew to me. _Him? I don't know..._

"I don't want any unpleasantness in my home," Carlisle said sternly. "If Fletcher's gift is harmful in any way-"

"Of course not, Carlisle," Chelsea insisted. "It's not at all unpleasant. In fact, no one is affected but Fletcher himself. That's the amazing part." She then turned to their captive. "Well?"

"Right now?"

"Yes, if you will."

Fletcher stared down, seemingly ashamed. "I have to do it privately."

"You don't _have_ to be by yourself," she said.

"I don't _like_ to do it front of others," came the terse reply.

A very low, warning growl emanated from Demetri. "Are you being _uncooperative_?"

"Please, enough, Demetri," Carlisle said. "He's agreed to do it, but wants to be by himself. That's not unreasonable."

"I won't have him left unguarded."

"Why don't I go with him?" Santiago said. "The two of us will step out. It won't be longer than a few minutes. Is that an agreeable compromise?"

Fletcher, realizing he had no choice, nodded, and then looked at me with sorrow. _I'm sorry.  
_

"Very well," Demetri conceded.

"Come along," Santiago said to the captive. It was a friendly tone, but one that brooked no argument.

_I'm really so sorry, _Fletcher said to me silently, then bowed his head and followed Santago out into the nearly full dawn light.

I looked at Carlisle, worried, as their footfalls quickened to get far enough away for "privacy." I was getting a very bad feeling about all of this. Why would he apologize to me? What's the point of being alone to perform whatever thing he did?

_I'm sure it'll be fine, _Carlisle said. _They wouldn't let him do anything dangerous._ _But I must ask- has he been thinking about trying to get away from them while he's here? _

Well, no. So far he's just been offering to help me escape you, I wanted to tell him. But, of course, I couldn't, so I just flashed a "no" with the movement of my eyes, and he looked relieved.

_Good. I hope it stays that way. If he does, though, do your best to ignore it and _do not_ tell them. Tell me first. Alert me by playing something- let's make it _The Entertainer_. If there's anything _else_ that you need to tell me while they're here, make a pretense of going to your room to change clothes, and write it down in your copy of _Tom Sawyer_. Signal me when you come back- just run your left hand through your hair- and I'll make a pretense of wanting to borrow the book._

I flickered my eyes up and back to center; a nod only he would notice. I felt immesaurably better, having a plan.

Meanwhile, Demetri was focused on the piano again, and it struck me that it might have been a while since he'd been able to play.

"Would you like to try it out?" I asked.

He grinned happily. "Very much. Thank you, Edward." In a flash he'd sat down and then, with his hands hovering over the keys, paused as he decided on what to play.

"Ah," he said, "you mentioned ragtime. Let's see if you know this..."

The tune was in 2/4 time and started out like a lot of rags, and then, just as it started to catch the swing, the structure changed... so odd. Still staggered, but melodic, without traditional rhythm. Legato, then staccato... the effect was interesting.

"What is it?" I asked. "Is that really ragtime?"

"In a way," he asked. "It's called _Golliwog's Cakewalk._ There are many cakewalk tunes in ragtime, no?"

"Yes, but not like this. Who wrote it?"

"Monsieur Debussy. I heard him play it several years ago in France, and he mentioned to the audience that it was written with ragtime in mind. I assume you know of Debussy."

"Of course."

"It was such a pleasure to hear him play in person."

I sat down on the bench next to Demetri, a touch envious. "I'd like to hear him sometime. I bet it _is_ nice to have all that music so close by."

"Truly, it is. But I'm afraid you've missed your chance with Debussy. Didn't you know? He died last year, in the spring, I believe."

"The flu?" Carlisle asked.

Demetri shrugged. "I don't know. Some pathetic human malady. What a waste."

I don't know why it disturbed me so much to hear that Debussy had died. He'd been a favorite of my mother's, I knew; she'd encouraged me to learn many of his piano works. It bothered me. Somehow, knowing such a familiar part of my human world, seemingly inconsequential, was gone... was _everything_ slipping away? It was, wasn't it? I would see the passing of it all, and remain the same...

"I wish Ravel would compose something new," Chelsea sighed. "Ever since that noisesome war started, new works are rare from _anyone_, unless it's about rallying to the cause, or dreary laments. Oh, well. Perhaps we'll start to hear decent music from the humans again now that it's over."

"I'm not very familiar with Ravel," I admitted.

"What a shame," Demetri said. "Have you heard nothing of his?"

"Yes, a few things. I've only played _Miroirs, _though."

"Ah, those are pretty pieces. But what about this? Chelsea, you like this one, I know."

With that, his fingers took off in E major, playing a tune that was delicate, strong... flowing, cascading... like water... reminiscent of a sonata in some of the technical aspects, but still so distinctly unique. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever heard.

"It's splendid. What's it called?" Carlisle asked, drifting over to join us at the piano.

"_Jeux d'eau,_"Chelsea said. "Isn't it lovely?"

I nodded, intently watching Demetri's flying hands as we all listened to the music. _Jeux d'eau_... that explained why it sounded like water. I intended to add it to my repertoire, and made a mental note to look into more of Ravel's works.

"Edward," Chelsea spoke to me... and the lilting, sing-song cadence of the word, with that voice of hers... my name had never sounded so melodic. She took my hand, and, somehow, despite the crimson, her gaze was so soft and inviting. "You really should come visit us in Volterra. With your talent and appreciation for music, it would be a shame for you to miss seeing our conservatory, and if you like art, you'd adore our collections. There is so much to see, and not just in Volterra, of course. It takes no time at all to get to Paris and London, Rome, Venice, Budapest, Vienna... we go all the time. You would simply love it."

"You'd be most welcome," Demetri said. "It's a very hospitable environment, you know. I'm sure Cullen has told you."

"Yes, he has," I said, glancing at Carlisle. He seemed not to notice, his gaze bent to the keyboard as Demetri continued playing. Still _Paradise Lost_... but he wasn't reciting it was quickly as he usually did.

A distinct feeling of wanderlust touched me right then. It wouldn't be so bad just to go visit and see the sights sometime, would it? I wouldn't have to stray from our diet, and it's not as if they would force me to stay. After all, Carlisle stayed there for decades himself, and they didn't force him to do anything he didn't want to do, or make him stay. Maybe I could even persuade him to come with me. Just for a little while...

My musings were interrupted as I picked up on the sound of running closeby... Santiago and Fletcher were on their way back, nearly to the cabin. My curiosity burned. What was it Fletcher had done while they'd been gone? What would he be sorry about, to me? I wondered how far away they'd had to go...

We all looked to the door when we heard them reach the porch- except Demetri, who was regarding me with a curious smile as he finished up the Ravel.

Fletcher was lagging behind, Santiago coming in ahead of him. According to his thoughts, the captive was dreading the moment I laid eyes on him.

"It went very well," Santiago reported. "He didn't try anything."

"Wise of him," Demetri replied, rising from the piano bench. "Come in, Fletcher. There's nothing to fear."

Fear? No. There was nothing to fear. But I immediately understood why his gift might wield so much power, and why some might react to it violently, because walking through the door, timid and wide-eyed, in ripped clothes now too small for him, was...

me.

_...to be continued_

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Once again, thank you so much for reading. The good news is that the next chapters are going to come out much, much more quickly.  
_

_Some tidbits:_

_- Yes, Mozart really did write the lyrics to a party song called (literal translation) "Lick Me in the Ass." There are various theories as to its inspiration. And please don't come down on me for having Carlisle swear. He's just mentioning the title of a vulgar song; there were no ladies present, and he's just hanging out with Edward._

_- Debussy did die in spring of 1918, but of cancer, not the flu. His funeral procession in Paris was, unfortunately, not attended, because German artillery was bombarding the city from land and sky._

_- Maurice Ravel didn't compose during the war, as was the case with many composers. He joined the military and drove trucks on the front at Verdun. Fans of this story might want to check out his music-- it's going to figure prominently in ch.13, and again in chs. 19 and 24._

_- As a point of interest, the war's eastern front came to head in Italy, just a few hundred miles from Volterra. Italy suffered massive losses in the war._

_- The Silesian language, still vying for official recognition, is spoken by peoples in parts of Poland and the Czech Republic. It's closest relative is probably Polish._

_- Santiago is named in canon as a member of the Volturi, and his strength/lack of gift alluded to, but the rest of him here is my creation. For those who know that Santiago is a Spanish name and have wondered why I'd make him a citizen of Volterra, Italy, my excuse is that he didn't necessarily have to have been born there. :D_

_- As always, if anyone spots any mistakes I've made in language or historical fact, please let me know. Thanks!_


	13. A Golden Thread

Chapter 12 - A Golden Thread

_TRUTH is a golden thread, seen here and there  
_

_In small bright specks upon the visible side  
_

_Of our strange being's parti-coloured web.  
_

_Like islands set  
_

_At distant intervals on Ocean's face,  
_

_We see it on our course; but in the depths  
_

_The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps  
_

_Its faithful way, invisible but sure.  
_

_Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we __  
_

_Pass by so many marks, so little heeding? _

- from _The Thread of Truth _by Arthur Hugh Clough

*|*|*

**His tweed** suit was in filthy ruins; the collar of his shirt was intact but detached from the rest of the garment, which hung in shreds. The shoulders of the shirt and jacket were split, and yet the sleeves, while too tight, were still in place. The trousers were now too short, the waist ripped- he had it clutched with one hand to keep them from falling away and leaving him exposed. His pale toes stuck out from torn leather shoes. His eyes were dark before, but now almost completely black with just a few striations of red, as if the metamorphosis had drained him, made him thirstier.

Other than those details, it may as well have been me who'd just walked in.

Demetri, still standing next to where I sat on the piano bench, clapped my shoulder, laughing like this was all some delightful practical joke.

"You look so stunned, my friend! Extraordinary, isn't it?"

I couldn't find words yet, and Carlisle's concentration on _Paradise Lost_ disintegrated.

_How is it possible?_ _I don't believe it_... e_ven the color of his hair..._

"One of our kind, a shape-shifter?" he muttered, stupefied.

Chelsea drifted to Fletcher's side, taking his hand and ushering him towards us at the piano. "I wouldn't have believed it either, if I hadn't seen for myself, but this is indeed the same Fletcher. Demetri detected his gift immediately."

"Not _immediately," _Demetri protested. "His coven scattered at first, trying to escape, and Fletcher here evidently thought he might avoid capture by changing forms while we chased down the others. It would have worked under most circumstances." He paused, and a lazy, self-satisfied smile softened his features. "But he can't change the signature of his mind. It was confusing, at first, when I caught up to him. It took a moment to realize what had happened."

"I'll bet," I muttered. Even being able to read his unchanged mind, it would have confused the hell out of me, too.

Carlisle approached my impostor, compelled by curiosity. "Can you imitate any form you see?"

Fletcher shook his head minutely; his wary gaze on me didn't break. "Just males within a foot of my own height, if I've touched them. I can also take on the form of human males... but only while their blood is in my system."

"You can look human?"

"No," came the hasty reply. "Just what they'd look like as one of us."

My shock deepened at the sound of his much smoother, slightly smoky voice- it was _mine_. I'd learned from Carlisle that it wasn't unusual for vampires to be able to mimic, with uncanny likeness, the voices of those they knew, but this wasn't mere mimicry- it was _my_ voice! It was _natural_ to him for as long as he was in this form.

Resentment mixed with my shock, welling up poisonously and turning to rage. I rose from the piano bench with coiled muscles, jaw clenched, my lips curling over my teeth in a hiss... I couldn't stop the growl that rippled through my chest.

_Calm down, Edward. It's not his fault. _Carlisle's hand raised reflexively, ready to ward me away from Fletcher.

"You assured us this wouldn't be harmful," he said acidly to our guests.

"But it's not," Demetri replied lightly, squeezing my shoulder in a thinly veiled warning. "No one is hurt. It's only natural for Edward to be surprised. He's just fine, aren't you, Edward?"

It took effort to keep from knocking Demetri's hand off my shoulder, which wouldn't have done anything except start a fight. All the same, I didn't need anyone's warnings; I wouldn't really have attacked Fletcher. I knew he had no choice. The anger was pure reflex, a defensive mechanism springing from instinct, but as much as those instincts told me to lash out at the strange and threatening, they also recoiled; it was _me_ standing there.

Still glowering at my twin, I flooded my lungs with a fresh breath, letting other stimuli distract me as a much as possible... the rush of the river, the rattle of a truck on the distant road... the bergamot and rose perfume that seemed to be Chelsea's natural fragrance. I noted, with some satisfaction, that while Fletcher's scent was close to mine, it wasn't _exactly_ right. There was still some of his own mixed in with it. As I exhaled, the growl died along with the initial shock, and I managed to detach a little from what I was seeing.

But the bitterness inside wasn't snuffed out; it shifted as I became aware of Santiago's chuckling, and how Demetri was twitching with barely-suppressed laughter, like a kid at a funeral who's thought up a joke about the pallor of the corpse.

Chelsea, at least, was somber, carefully watching me and my unwilling twin, whose mind was racing. He was ready to fight if I went for him, calculating what the repercussions would be if that happened; only Chelsea's grip kept him from crouching into attack position. At the same time, though, he continued his silent apologies to me, wishing he hadn't had to do this. In the background of his mind- again, ever more visual than verbal- there was a crystalline memory of just four minutes and five seconds previous, in the woods three miles from here, where he'd lain on damp ground, concentrating on every aspect of my image and how my hand had felt in his. He'd been curled up in agony as his body changed, while Santiago looked on in idle fascination.

I didn't envy him one bit, and as the moments passed, pity for him returned.

"I'm sorry," I said when I could trust my voice to sound calm enough. "It's... kind of a shock."

He smiled wanly as Chelsea let go and Carlisle's posture relaxed. "That's alright."

"I'm glad the... _change_ didn't take long, since it's so painful for you." I glanced at Carlisle with these words, knowing he'd be interested in the information.

_Is it very painful?_ he asked, his brow furrowed. I nodded, and then he leveled an ochre glare accusingly at our guests.

"Why would you have him do this if it's painful?"

Fletcher's gaze fell. He regarded the whole process, including the pain, as something intensely personal, and hadn't planned on mentioning it.

Demetri snorted. "It's not so much of an ordeal. You saw for yourself how briefly they were gone."

"I'd endure considerable pain for a gift like that," Santiago said. "You can't tell me that a creature of your curiosity isn't fascinated, _Stregone. _I don't think even the ancients have seen the like."

"If it's painful to him, he shouldn't be commanded to perform it like some parlor trick," Carlisle replied.

"Perhaps not," Santiago said with a contrite nod. "Though I'm compelled to point out that he ought to get used to being commanded to use his gift."

Carlisle conceded with silence, his gaze shifting back to Fletcher, searching for any differences between us, other than eye color... and finding none. Even the thin, white scar from his bite into my throat was perfectly reproduced.

_Extraordinary._

"We haven't informed the triad about him yet. We want to surprise them," Demetri said with a grin. "When we return, he'll accompany the others into the hall, but in my form. I'm dying to see if the ruse will last until Aro takes his hand."

"I'm sure Aro will be delighted," Carlisle said absently. His mind churned away, still undisguised, warring between intense curiosity and being appalled.

_I can just imagine the look on his face when he realizes it's not Demetri's hand he's holding, but one of the greatest prizes he could ever collect, already delivered and literally gift-wrapped. _

_Of course they'll covet his gift. They could infiltrate almost any coven in the world with it... so petty, commanding him to change into Edward's form... at least the changeling won't be able to get away with imitating the gifted ones... Edward would know by now if Fletcher had adopted his mindreading skill, so that clearly hasn't happened... all males within a foot of his own height...? I wonder if that means his mass doesn't alter, only the arrangement of it...? Does he take on the physical strengths and of those he imitates? How can his hair color change like that?_

Fletcher wasn't thinking about his freakish ability, or how others might employ it. Now that the possibility of a physical confrontation had passed, there was only one thing really preoccupying him.

Calmly, I stepped away from the piano and out from under Demetri's grip on my shoulder.

"Why don't you come with me?" I said quietly to Fletcher, nodding in the direction of my room. "I'll get you something to wear."

"Thank you," he muttered in relief. He started to follow as I headed for the hallway, but halted when Chelsea's hold on his hand tightened.

"That's very generous of you, Edward," she said, "but there's no need. I'm sure something of Santiago's would do."

"But my clothes would actually fit him, wouldn't they?" I snapped, my anger surfacing. There was an instantaneous acceleration in Demetri's thoughts, and his eyes narrowed as he readied to speak, but I cut him off. "Don't worry. I won't let your precious shape-shifter out of sight."

He cocked an eyebrow, letting something in English come through. _So you lied. You can hear me thinking of what I'm going to say, after all._

I smirked. "No, the Silesian is still an effective disguise, but it doesn't make your thoughts any less predictable."

All humor fled from Demetri's face as his expression turned deadly, his crimson gaze sharpening into poniards.

_Edward! _My own gaze whipped to Carlisle briefly, just long enough to let him know I was paying attention before I set my wary sight on Demetri again.

_I understand your resentment, _Carlisle urgently thought. _But what's done is done. I don't want it leading to even more unpleasantness. Fletcher's scared right now- understandably so, of course- but he's not in any danger if he cooperates, and they have every right to be watchful over him. It does no good if he acts on his fright. They won't risk taking him on a ship if they think he'll do something to make a spectacle, like fighting them or trying to escape, and they're certainly not going to let him go, either. Do you want to see what they'll do to him if he tries getting away?_

Chastened, I shook my head glumly. No, I didn't particularly want that.

_Then don't say things like that. It undermines their authority over him. What you ought to be doing- what we _both _ought to be doing- is setting Fletcher's mind at ease about his situation as much as possible... they'll be wondering what I'm saying to you now... apologize reluctantly, as if I've ordered you to, and then take Fletcher to change, as you offered. _

"I'm sorry for my rudeness, Demetri," I muttered. It didn't take effort to seem reluctant. "I guess I'm just a little on edge right now."

"Think nothing of it," he replied. The pattern of his thoughts smoothed out for the most part, as did his features, but the tone of the Silesian... it was as if he'd made up his mind about something, and his eyes glinted in anticipation.

"My old friends, you're here to relax," Carlisle said to the trio. " I assure you that Edward will be vigilant while Fletcher is with him. There's nothing to be concerned about. I assume you have some baggage; please let me help you bring it in, and I'll show you to your rooms while Fletcher changes."

Chelsea relented with another winning smile, releasing my doppelganger's hand. "Are you certain you don't mind, Edward? We don't want to inconvenience you."

I managed a return smile for her. "It's no inconvenience."

*|*|*

The huge old wardrobe in my room smelled of cedar, cotton, wool, leather, shoe polish and dust, and later on in the afternoon, sunlight would warm the wood, releasing trace odors of fish, likely the result of fishermen who'd stored their soiled gear in it. Its doors creaked as I opened them for Fletcher.

"Help yourself."

I moved aside and stood by the window, watching the empty woods, now no longer misty, and listening to chatter coming from the driveway on the other side of the cabin. Carlisle was making small talk with Chelsea and Santiago about the roads and where they bought the Packard, while he helped carry their belongings into the house. He would show them to the two spare rooms that were beyond the never-used kitchen. Having no idea who was coming aside from Demetri, he'd furnished both rooms, just in case there were any women in the party. Naturally, there were no beds. Like our rooms, these spaces were only for storing some belongings, and to provide a place to change.

Demetri had opted to stay at the piano, and was playing a simple, soporific piece I wasn't familiar with. I liked it, though. I imagined what it would sound like as part of a concerto while Fletcher stood back from the wardrobe indecisively.

"Wouldn't you rather choose?" he said. "I don't want to take something you really like."

"Nah, go ahead," I said, glancing over the clothes. "I'm not attached to any of it- well, except my school blazer, and those shirts with my initials on the lapels... and that pair of army boots. As for the rest, it's all pretty much new. I haven't even worn most of it yet."

_He's attached to his old human clothes? _he thought._ That's kind of pathetic. Say, this blue tie is spiffy. Silk. _He fingered it, then moved on to something else. _No, it's too nice. I should leave that._

"It doesn't matter. If you like it, you can have it."

_Jesus, he really hears everything, doesn't he?_

"Yes."

"Sorry about the comment about your human clothes," he said, chagrined.

It struck me then that, since returning with Santiago, he hadn't seemed as diminutive as he had in his previous form. I wasn't sure yet if it was because he'd been so much smaller as the red-headed kid who'd been hovering near the Packard, or if he was just feeling more secure now. Probably both. He seemed more physically comfortable in "my" body- it was probably closer to his original height. And he was obviously feeling secure enough to call me "pathetic," at least in his mind.

"It's alright," I said, shrugging it off.

The comment had been irritating, but it all too was easy to remember that, just three nights ago, I'd been standing in this very room, wearing torn, filthy clothes, looking at all the remnants of my human life that I kept here, thinking almost exactly same thing. Not in my wildest imaginings about what the infamous Volturi would bring did I guess that I'd end up standing in the same spot, watching a near-exact copy of myself go through my closet, listening to him think similar thoughts.

Well, _thought. _It was just that one thing echoed so familiarly. Among the other things on Fletcher's mind was his painful thirst, which he was feeling more acutely with every passing minute, and while that was definitely familiar, his meal plan was very different, not to mention far more appetizing. It took effort to ignore the images of what he most wanted to be doing at that moment, and my throat started to burn...

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep, calming breath, pinching the bridge of my nose, half in concentration, half to stem some of the scent flooding in... _I'm not thirsty, I hunted three days ago... I'm not thirsty... _

Soon I was able to shun Fletcher's thoughts of hunting, giving more room to questions simultaneously rattling around in his head about me and Carlisle, about how we knew these creatures who'd murdered his companions and were absconding him to Italy... and he was still standing there, wondering if it was really alright if he took that tie. I rolled my eyes and took it out of the wardrobe for him.

"Here."

"Thanks," he said, smirking sheepishly, and then turned his attention back to the wardrobe. After a moment, he selected a dark brown tweed suit and beige gabardine shirt, and set them aside to get out some shoes and socks.

"You should take more when it's time," I said. "You've still got a lot of traveling ahead."

"Thanks, but I wouldn't have anything to keep them in."

I glanced up at my luggage on top of the wardrobe, and his gaze followed.

"You can take that black trunk when you head to New York," I said. "In the meantime, just help yourself when you need to change."

He glanced ruefully between the trunk and me, at the same time finally tearing the remnants of his ruined suit away.

"You're being a lot more generous than I probably would be if I were in your shoes."

"You _are _in my shoes, or about to be, anyway." I chuckled bitterly. "And why not? You're in a replica of my damn body, after all."

"I really am-"

"-sorry, I know. You can stop apologizing now. I understand it wasn't your choice."

"I'm just grateful that you're taking this so well."

I didn't doubt that. By then, he'd recalled what I understood to be most of the occasions he'd used his "gift" before, and I couldn't help noticing that there was a conspicuous absence of any face-to-face meetings with those he "copied" _after_ he'd changed into them. I had to wonder... did any of them live to see it after he took on their forms, or was I the first?

He unbuttoned the gabardine with care before putting it on, unwilling to risk ripping it, but taking the extra second to do that made him uncomfortable. He wanted to get covered up quickly. That's when I realized... he was uncomfortable about being nude in front of me.

I snorted, unable to resist chuckling as I looked out the window, averting my eyes from my own body. "It's literally nothing I haven't seen before. In fact, I've seen it pretty much every day of my existence."

He half-smiled, shaking his head, and started berating himself silently as he dressed. _All those costume changes in front of whoever happened to be standing around backstage... I didn't care then. Why now? Christ, I don't know what the devil is wrong with me. _

I knew exactly what was wrong with him. Between the recent slaughter of his coven, his status as a prisoner of the Volturi, and my knowing his every thought, he was already feeling exposed. Physical nudity was just a fresh layer of vulnerability on top of it all. He was starting to feel better as he dressed, though, trusting that the situation was becoming more secure. He'd been starting to accept that he really wasn't in danger here.

In a few moments he was finishing up neatly with the blue tie, and then shut the wardrobe to check his appearance in the heavy mirror set in the door. I was curious about how he'd react to seeing himself, but he didn't even pause, much less experience discomfort, at the sight of a new face in his reflection.

_Feels good to have some togs that fit, _he thought, enjoying the clothes, and then his eyes shifted; our gazes met in the mirror.

"So where did you take them from?" he asked.

"'Take' them?"

"Well, yes. The clothes," he replied, eying me like I was dense.

I knew what he meant by it without any elaboration. Most vampires stole whatever possessions they had. Nomads needed little, and very few covens lasted long enough to build up any wealth of their own. Carlisle was one of very few who sought an occupation in the human world, but I knew he'd be practicing medicine whether he was paid or not.

"I don't steal them, I _buy_ them," I replied, a touch smug. Vampire, yes. Criminal, no. "And I don't steal the money to pay for them, either. I'm... fortunate, I suppose. I have an inheritance."

And, of course, Carlisle had his many, many decades' worth of earnings and a string of properties across the country. But I was able to buy my own things, which was a small but satisfying measure of independence. I'd been dependent on Carlisle for so much as it was.

Fletcher looked at me like I had a second head. "An _inheritance? _How'd you pull that off?"

"I'm not dead to the human world." I smiled wanly. "My parents were gone, taken by the flu, when Carlisle changed me, and we arranged things to look like I recovered. "

His next question was going to be "why?" which I really didn't want to answer. I _couldn't _answer. In the last hour I'd started to really understand everything Carlisle had told me about how different we were from other vampires. To them, our lifestyle was the height of irrationality... hanging on to humanity when we could never truly be a part of it again. I couldn't explain why I'd kept myself "alive" in the human world- not in any way Fletcher could understand, at any rate- so I spoke up before he could ask.

"You seem to remember your old life pretty well," I remarked. "Do you miss it?"

"No... or, at least, not often." His gaze settled again on his new reflection, growing distant as cloudy images of his lost days in vaudeville presented themselves. "The memories are there, but I don't feel much connection to them. Doesn't seem like much of a loss, though... there's never really been time to dwell on it. We were on the move most of the time."

Infinitely more vivid memories of his coven came on, especially of the leader who'd sired him, a former Creole named Jean-Marc. After he'd turned Fletcher, theirs had become the most feared coven in the region. All they had to do was get a male from one of the rival covens alone and kill him, and then Fletcher could infiltrate with his new form. It wasn't long before they'd achieved dominance. One coven even fell apart out of sheer paranoia, killing one of their own who they'd mistakenly suspected was a copy.

It was all so foreign and strange to me, and I was grateful for the distance it created. Seeing him so like me, hearing his voice, and then with what he'd just said about his human memories... I needed something to fight off the eeriness of yet another dimension of similarity between us.

"There were four in your coven?" I asked.

He nodded ever so slightly, once again discomfited about the extent of my ability.

_There must be a way to keep him out... maybe I'll try what the others are doing... I don't speak Silesian, whatever that is, but... _"Do you speak French?" he asked hopefully, looking at me.

I nodded with a silent chuckle.

"Figures," he muttered, his gaze shifting from mine to his reflection again. "It wouldn't be worth the effort anyway. It's not as if I've got anything resembling privacy left as it is."

"I really am sorry they made you do this."

He shook his head dismissively. "There's nothing you could have done about it. Besides, you'd think I'd be used to being put on display," he said, turning from the mirror to face me. "You know what they used to call me when I was in vaudeville? On the playbill over my pictures it read: _Fletcher Dunn, The Man of a Thousand Faces. _I could imitate almost anyone I observed._"_ He smirked bitterly. "Can't say I care much for how it carried over."

That made two of us again, in more ways than one.

"I'm sorry, too, about this," I said, tapping my head with a forefinger. "I really meant it earlier, when I said that I wish I could just shut it off." Although, at the moment, it was proving useful.

His head cocked in fascination. _What would it be like to hear them thinking when...? But then I guess he hasn't. _"You've really never fed?"

"Not on humans, no."

He stared at me in uncomprehending disbelief, and I had to fight off more irritation. Why did he have to look so much like me, dammit? It seemed like every time I was getting used to it, his face twisted into some distracting new expression that I'd never seen myself make before. Did I really look like that?

"And you're just going to go on forever, living in that kind of pain?" he asked.

"Carlisle says it gets better," I replied half-heartedly.

"And you believe him?"

I shrugged. "Sure. He turned me almost ten months ago, and it's already much better. Besides, his success speaks for itself. He's never taken a human life."

"How old is he?"

"About 250."

My doppelganger's face almost turned paler._ Never in all that time, not even as a newborn?_ _That's impossible! Unless it's a gift...  
_

"Is it a talent he was born with?"

"He doesn't think so," I said with a soft snort. "I'm not so sure, though. By all accounts, his self-control is beyond extraordinary, especially considering he started out with the same thirst as the rest of us."

Fletcher's eyebrows crowded together in puzzlement.

_Never a drop of blood..._"But then how can he know _them _so well_?_" he asked, calling up an image of the Volturi guards. "They don't feed like him. It doesn't make sense."

"They didn't require him to drink as they did when he was in Volterra. There's no rule against subsisting on animal blood. I've seen some of his time there in his memories."

As always, when thinking of Carlisle's stay with the Volturi, I recollected what he saw of their palatial halls and gardens, and of a courtyard constructed within their grounds that was so cleverly placed that they could walk in sunlight without any risk of being seen by Volterra's human inhabitants. There were the long conversations -not just with Aro- about the arts and sciences, poring over the histories kept in their library, the music...

Carlisle was right about putting Fletcher's mind at ease. If he went peacefully, nothing bad would happen to him there.

"You shouldn't be afraid of going with them. Theirs is the most civilized coven there is," I said.

_Civilized? _Fletcher's eyes narrowed as the destruction of his own coven replayed in his mind... Jane's tormenting sight bearing down on them... the hideous cracking of their bodies being ripped to pieces, the unearthly screaming, the fires... he spoke low, with a tremor. "We got word of an ancient clan sweeping through, killing any vampire who was involved in the battles for territory. Only Jean-Marc knew who they were, what to expect... I'd never seen him afraid before... we tried to hide, but they found us. They didn't even ask questions when they came... caught us so quickly. Jean-Marc, Louise and Jesse were destroyed. They weren't given a chance to defend themselves. And then I ran..." His gaze snapped back into the present as he seethed. "They're _vicious_."

"And you aren't?" I asked somberly. "You forget, I've seen what happened to the others whose forms you assumed. How many did you kill? The human men you changed into, after you drank from them? Or the vampires, using what your body learned about their structures as you and the one called Jesse tore them apart?"

On the other side of the house, coming from the piano, Demetri's "voice" broke through in English.

_Very fair of you, Edward. I'm impressed._

"I couldn't help any of that," Fletcher spat. "We were only defending our territory!"

Demetri's next remark was accompanied by a sort of mental sigh._ That's what they all say. Same excuse, every time._

"It's none of my business," I said, making it clear to both of them that I wasn't about to take sides. Besides, there was only so much we could say aloud with the others within earshot, and the conversation was headed into dangerous territory. So far it was alright; the Silesian coming from the other rooms had remained smooth and unperturbed, even when Fletcher had called them "vicious," and Carlisle's mental voice hadn't sounded out with any warnings. "I honestly don't care what you've done before. But I can see how nervous you are about going to Volterra, and you really shouldn't be. If they were going to kill you, they would have done it already."

"I guess you think I should thank them_," _he said bitterly. _They act as if I'm supposed to fall to my knees and kiss their feet._

Just then, Carlisle said something to me in thought. I listened, and then gave a short sigh to let him know I understood. _  
_

"All I know is that the Volturi are taking you to Italy so you can be invited to join them," I said to Fletcher as I moved to the door. "I've seen what your life was like in Jean-Marc's coven in the wars, and I've seen what Carlisle's experience was like in Volterra. Of the two, I'd pick Volterra, hands-down."

I opened the door, signaling an end to the conversation.

Fletcher ruminated about what I'd said as the bitter memories of his companions' demise faded away, leaving him in the here and now. He stayed like that for several moments, a frown worrying his face as he questioned everything about his situation. Then he looked up at me, curiosity in his eyes. I heard the question in his mind before he said the words, but there wasn't enough time to cut him off.

"Are you coming to Italy, too?" he asked.

Disguised as their thoughts were, I still sensed sudden interest from the keen-eared vampires elsewhere in the house.

"I hadn't planned on it."

_That's not really an answer_, he thought.

My jaw set, and he headed for the door, recognizing that I had no intention of saying anything further on the subject. On his way, he glanced at a set of shelves displaying some of my mementos, catching the lingering human scent on them.

_Weird. _

He caught himself, shaking his head a little. _Sorry._

Frowning, I shut the door behind us._  
_

_(to be continued...)_

_*|*|*  
_

_A/N: Well, a little quicker this time, eh? And the next one will be faster than this was._

_Spot any mistakes? Please let me know. _

_I'm pleased to announce that My Lost Youth was nominated for "Best Canon or AU Story That Knocks Your Socks Off Your Feet (WIP)" and "Best Use of a Parent" in the Indie Twific Awards. Voting for the first round is currently closed, and stories that made the cut for the next round will be announced on the 7th, so... don't go vote, because you can't right now. :D The reason I mention the nominations here is because I have no idea who out there nominated My Lost Youth, so this is my opportunity to offer heartfelt thanks to whoever that reader (or readers) is. I was thrilled to hear my story had been nominated, and so many of the other nominees were so good... it was an honor. Thank you very much._

_And thanks, as always, to **all** the readers who've been coming along on this journey. _

_Trivia Tidbit for this chapter: Vaudeville was at its height in this era, and there really was an actor known as "The Man of a Thousand Faces," but his name was Lon Chaney. After years in vaudeville, Chaney started acting in films, and 1919 was when he garnered widespread recognition. That year, he happened to appear in a movie called "The False Faces."  
_


	14. There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt I

_Dear Readers,_

_All of spring, and now into summer, and at last a new chapter comes out. To those who waited, thank you. To those who didn't, I don't blame you._

_For those who thought I might be abandoning My Lost Youth... that has never entered my brain. It won't happen. Every day, I thought about this story. Every day, I wanted to write. Sometimes I even got a chance to. To say that "real" life got in the way is a laughable understatement._

_But enough about me. On with the story..._

* * *

Chapter 13 - There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt. I

_"There is no God,' the wicked saith,_  
_"And truly it's a blessing,_  
_For what he might have done with us,_  
_It's only better guessing."_  
- from _There is No God, the Wicked Saith_ by Arthur Hugh Clough

* * *

When we came back to the living room, Chelsea was seated next to Demetri at the piano, humming to his music, as enchanting to the eye as she was to the ear. Gone were her gloves as well as her shoes, and her hair spilled down her back in shiny, blue-black waves. She smiled at us, still humming.

_Dear Fletcher looks like he's feeling better. Thank you, Edward._

I nodded in acknowledgment, studying her beautiful, small-featured face... so youthful, and yet I knew she'd been with the Volturi since the earliest centuries of their rule. I imagined Chelsea dressed in a gray tunica and palla, roaming the nights of the ancient Roman empire when it was at its most majestic, long before the Volturi stopped hunting as other vampires do. Did she nourish herself with the blood of centurions? Hebrew slaves maybe? Had they ever gone to the Coliseum in Rome to watch the bloodsports, whetting their appetite? What wars had they seen? What tumults had they remained unchanged through?

It was too bad she wasn't more of a visual thinker. I wanted to see that long-gone world, should she call up any memories of it. But her serene, ruby gaze betrayed no hint of the past, and neither did Demetri's, for that matter. It seemed like they didn't dwell on the histories of where they came from much, as if they didn't think anything of great importance had happened. I could just imagine them on one of their journeys in ancient times, perhaps stopping to watch as Carthage was sacked, and then continuing on as if it had been a mildly amusing diversion. They possessed cool, vast distance from the human world, and always had.

Still humming and gazing at me, she tilted her head, her eyes sparkling in amusement, and I realized I was still staring. I almost looked away to where Carlisle and Santiago were grouped, examining the artworks Carlisle had acquired since his time in Volterra- but then, I didn't feel like I needed to. A warm, comforting inner glow lit up and grew inside me as our gazes continued to meld... a sense of belonging. It wasn't romantic; as beautiful as she was, no desire stirred within me. But the connection was still alluring... a bond of kinship. We were of a kind. I barely even noticed when Fletcher spied a book that sparked his interest, and went to go take a look at it.

And then something visual _did_ swirl to life in her mind, and I was immediately entranced. A female... one of their coven, gliding long-limbed through a piazza at night... and if I thought Chelsea's beauty was captivating, I hadn't seen anything yet. I didn't know women could be so beautiful. This creature in my mind now was literally breathtaking. Cascades of silky, mahogany hair and the most exquisite face, full-lipped and high cheekboned... and the fluid way she moved...

_Her name is Heidi. Isn't she lovely?_

Chelsea's sing-song mental voice slipped out of Silesian, and I nodded in response, dumbstruck, my mind filled with images from hers.

_She's been with us for more than a century now, and has no mate. In terms of physical beauty, it would be almost impossible to find her equal, or so I thought, until seeing you. You two would get along famously, I'm sure._

I resisted a snort, glancing to the floor. Flattering as it was, I could see what Chelsea was doing. Sure, Heidi was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but I had no urge whatsoever to run off to Volterra to play suitor. As attractive as Heidi was, her beauty entranced me the way a fantastic, unworldly sunset or other natural vista would, like a living work of art. Her beauty wasn't... _enticing_. It was an obvious bit of baiting on Chelsea's part. The funny thing was, she didn't need to dangle this Heidi as bait, not when I already felt more drawn to them- to my kind- than I ever anticipated.

And then something Santiago was saying to Carlisle distracted me.

"What happened here?" he asked, running his blunt-tipped forefinger along a crack in a bas relief sculpture that hung heavily on the wall. "I'm surprised to see this damaged," he said to Carlisle. "I know how you prize it."

"Just an accident," Carlisle said dismissively.

I frowned guiltily at his effort to deflect interest in the damage, which had been my fault. It was the very plaque that had been a casualty of that first bloodthirsty fit, driven by my own mother's human scent. I'd felt badly about damaging so many things in his basement that night, but, when gluing the fragment of that sculpture back into place, I 'd been especially depressed. It was a beautiful thing, though small compared to some of the paintings; certainly not the centerpiece of his wall. Measuring a square foot, carved in relief out of its limestone were several winged, male figures suspended bondlessly aloft, with fire and serpents twining around their limbs, and yet their stretching, writhing movement didn't depict pain, but a state of exaltation. They were in thrall, circling a brilliant light. Although the detail was impeccable, what was most startling was how alive those figures seemed. Even the depicted light, fashioned out of intricate, concentric striations in the limestone, actually seemed incandescent.

The sculpture was in Carlisle's thoughts often, but not memories of where it came from, and never with intention of bringing it up in conversation. It popped into his head the way someone thinks of a favorite piece of music; seemingly random, but repetitively enough that there must be an underlying reason.

When we were packing up all the art for the move to this cabin, I'd taken the opportunity to ask about it as he removed it from the wall.

"You think of that often," I'd said.

He paused, looking down at the plaque in his hands. "Probably more than I realize."

"Have you had it long?"

"Since my time in Volterra."

"They're the Seraphim, aren't they?"

"Yes," he said, glancing up at me with a small smile, pleasantly surprised that I'd recognized them.

"What is it called?"

"It was never titled, but I suppose if I were to name it, Before the Fall would do."

That was unexpected. The twisting forms were plainly angels, the brilliant light they surrounded a representation of God, which I'd realized probably made them the Seraphim – the highest order of angels - but none of them seemed in danger of an imminent fall from grace.

"Is one of them Lucifer?"

Carlisle's smile faded away. "He was a Seraph, but, no, none of these is necessarily him. Lucifer is far from the only angel to leave the heavens, or be cast down for transgressions." He fell quiet, at least in voice, but part of his mind filled with an image of the forms in the sculpture, setting them into motion and color, the light pulsing and casting ethereal, caressing flames around them.

"Why do you think of this so much?"

He blinked, the image vanishing, and although he didn't really disguise his thoughts just then, the ones that dealt with the sculpture were sped through and then diverted to a blank, as if deliberately avoiding a familiar destination.

"It's just something I muse on," he said quietly, setting it into straw-packed crate with such care that guilt over having damaged it gnawed at me again. "I'll tell you more about it another time."

And now here he was a few months later, trying to avoid telling his old friends what had happened to it.

"An accident?" Santiago's eyebrow arched, signifying obvious doubt of Carlisle's explanation. Our kind didn't have clumsy accidents. He leaned over and took a small sniff of the sculpture where it had been repaired. "Recent," he assessed. "Less than a year ago. Was it damaged in a move?"

"It was my doing," I admitted, wandering to where they were. "It took a hit the day after I woke."

The Volturi guardsman smiled knowingly. "Marcus insisted that I not be let near anything of great value or significance in Volterra until I was in my second year. I'm surprised you didn't take similar precautions with your newling, _Stregone_. You're lucky that nothing valuable was irreparably damaged."

"Luck had little to do with it. Edward's self-control and capacity for adapting are remarkable; nothing short of prodigious, in my opinion. Besides, even if the damage had been irreparable, it's not as if a replica isn't within reach."

"I thought this was a one-of-a-kind piece," I said.

"It is, but of all these things, it's the most replaceable. Its sculptor can reproduce it if need be."

"Someone in Volterra?" I asked, knowing the thing was at least two hundred years old.

"Not anymore," Santiago said, looking at Carlisle. "I believe you crafted this in 1731? That was your most prolific year."

Surprised, I raised my eyebrow at Carlisle as if to say, _You? Why didn't you tell me you made this?_

"It's difficult not to get caught up in creative endeavors in Volterra," he admitted sheepishly. He provided a glimpse of memory... his own hands crumbling away limestone, transforming it into seraphs and light. "I developed an appreciation for shaping stone."

"You can see some of his work in Volterra, of course, and scattered about here and there," Demetri said. "He's the only vampire to have artwork in Vatican City."

My eyes widened in surprise. _The_ Vatican City? Decorated with the work of a vampire? "How exactly did you accomplish that?"

"It wasn't my doing," Carlisle said, shooting Demetri a hassled glance. "It was Caius's idea of a joke. There was a street vendor in Volterra who would go to Rome every few months to sell small idols to the faithful on their pilgrimages, and I gave always gave him some pieces and told him to keep whatever money he got for them. The vendor returned from one of his trips saying that a Cardinal had taken interest in my work, and wanted to commission another piece from me, possibly for a new garden in the Vatican. I declined."

"Why?"

"You can take the priest out of the church, but you cannot take the church out of the priest," Chelsea said. "At least, not in Stregone's case."

"I wasn't Catholic, Chelsea. I only felt it disrespectful to allow the Cardinal to unknowingly decorate the seat of the Catholic Church with my sculptures, not when there were hundreds of deserving human artists who labored more honestly than I."

"Then how did it get there?" my voice asked, though I wasn't the one who'd spoken.

Fletcher gravitated towards us, having lost interest in a tome of Greek tragedies. But it wasn't just the topic that had his attention- he was busy contemplating Carlisle, utterly fascinated. There was a shift beginning in his perception... he was starting to understand why I chose to be here, despite the dietary restrictions. He hung on every word as Carlisle went on to explain that Caius had learned of what had transpired, and, through a bit of deception – and behind Carlisle's back – arranged the "donation" of one of Carlisle's larger pieces to the Vatican, where it was then displayed in the garden in question, and evidently still stood to this day.

"Carlisle was vexed by that little stunt," Demetri chuckled.

And it still irritated him. In the interest of letting the subject drop, Carlisle refrained from voicing objections to what Caius had done, but his mind was alive with them.

"You were a priest?" Fletcher asked.

Carlisle just nodded slightly.

Fletcher examined the sculpture, puzzled. "Are they angels?"

"Yes, the Seraphim."

"Why are they on fire?"

"That's holy fire," Carlisle replied, the tone of his Milton more structured than usual, and I could tell he was hiding something_ extra_ underneath... "The Seraphim's place in the heavens is around God's throne, and their very name means 'burning ones.' They're usually described as aflame with divine fire. They're the bearers of God's eternal light."

"You neglected to mention the alternate meaning of their title,_ Stregone_," Santiago said.

Carlisle's jaw clenched, but only for a moment.

"What?" Fletcher asked.

"It's nothing," Carlisle said dismissively. "Just an obscure bit of folklore. The word seraphim can also be translated to serpent, and it's said that they also possessed a burning venom, fatal to mortals but manna to them."

"That doesn't make sense," Fletcher scoffed. "Venomous angels?"

"Careful," Chelsea chimed in, an eyebrow raised. "You've stumbled onto one of Carlisle's pet philosophies. You'll end up hearing about more than you bargained for."

"No, no," Carlisle said with a chuckle. "I'm not getting into all of that now."

"All of what?" Fletcher persisted eagerly, and a faint warning sounded inside me. At the same time, I didn't understand why his growing admiration for Carlisle should bother me, but it did.

"It's nothing of consequence. Just myths and stories I like to ruminate about, that's all."

"Aro was fascinated, as I recall," Chelsea said wryly, her gaze narrowing at Carlisle. "He spent countless hours doing research and sending us on all kinds of artifact-finding missions to disprove your theory, and yet you always managed to send him scurrying back to the books."

Carlisle couldn't resist a small smile at that, while I sent him an inquisitive look._ Theory?_

_I'll tell you after they leave, I promise,_ he answered.

"Haven't you told Edward yet?" Santiago asked.

"It's not important by any means," Carlisle replied.

"I agree," Demetri muttered. "Theological bedtime stories for those who have no bedtime."

"Please excuse Demetri," Santiago said to me. "He has no imagination."

"And you'll have to excuse Santiago," Demetri retorted. "He has yet to realize that fairy tales about winged men whose sole purpose is to surround an all-knowing God, singing his praises, is drivel. Not to mention boring."

That remark set my temper on edge, and my whole body tensed in anger. I didn't really understand what was really being discussed- everyone was busy hiding their thoughts except Fletcher, who was even more clueless than I was- but I was pretty sure that, even in whatever society Demetri was used to, it was the height of disrespect to belittle your host's beliefs in his own home. As the anger flared, my gaze instinctively went to Carlisle, who was already looking at me, caution in his eyes.

_Calm, Edward. Let it pass._

I glowered at the floor, simmering. I couldn't understand how he remained unperturbed as Demetri continued rambling about it, still playing a tune that sounded like something Tchaikovsky would compose.

"It's all so silly. They're just little fictions. You know that, don't you? It's sad that you've never known the delight of seeing all those absurd beliefs crumble in one of the faithful when they realize what you are... what's about to happen to them. It's in their eyes..." he smiled contemplatively over the keyboard, his fingers dancing over triplets "...like they're seeing cold truth for the first and last time. The world is nothing like what they believed, and you're the one who showed them." He chuckled absentmindedly.

"Demetri has been known to toy with his food," Chelsea said apologetically to me. "I assure you, most of us simply enjoy our meals and are done with them."

Just the mention of feeding was enough to wreck Fletcher's concentration on other things. He swallowed tightly, jaw flexing as his eyes darkened just a touch. His gaze settled on the beckoning woods beyond the open doors to the porch. Carlisle tensed.

"I can't help but notice your discomfort, Fletcher," he said, his tone soothing. "How long since you last fed?"

"Seventeen nights," came the guttural reply.

"It would have been only two nights had he been trustworthy enough to hunt with us," Demetri said irritably, finishing up the piece he'd been playing. "As it was, we had to take turns nourishing ourselves, just so that he could be guarded properly."

I wanted to joke by asking if they couldn't have at least brought him some leftovers, but it wouldn't have gone over well with anyone in the room, and the onus to be tactful was apparently on me. As it was, I suspected they had reasons for not letting Fletcher feed before coming here. It's almost as if they wanted him on edge.

"I assume you won't let him on the ship malnourished?" Carlisle looked pointedly at Chelsea.

"Not at all," she replied. "We thought that tonight would be opportune, if it's no trouble. Naturally, we'll be content to escort Fletcher outside of your area to feed."

"Tonight is no trouble at all."

"Are there any other territories to be mindful of?" Santiago asked.

"None than I know of," Carlisle replied. "The closest fixed coven is near Toronto. As far as my own claim goes, let's call it 150 miles."

"Isn't that the standard in this country?"

The discussion kept on about the parameters of territory in different lands, and that's when I realized... from here, Carlisle had all of Milwaukee, Chicago and even Grand Rapids under his territorial umbrella. No one in those cities would fall victim to the Volturi tonight.

But they might fall victim to me, I thought, as everything within my vision started to take on a reddish tint.

"Tonight better get here soon," I said tightly. Fletcher's thirst was keener than ever, and he was busy remembering the way his last victim felt against him, warm and alive, heart thrumming in terror, ambrosia on his tongue, gushing in, flooding him... the scent, the sound, the sensations... so good. Sheer ecstasy.

Carlisle watched me closely... knowingly._ Edward, are you alright?_

I met his gaze quickly, shaking my head just a little. I knew what I had to do, and I had to do it fast.

"Excuse me. I'll be nearby."

I strode swiftly to the porch and then ran.

It only took a few seconds to get away from Fletcher's thoughts, but by then my own were nearly indistiguishable from his.

_I need it. I can have it, right now if I want. I want... I have to... none of this is right... shouldn't be here... not natural... feed, drink deep, take it... it's so near... go northwest. Just get close enough to catch their scent, that's all._

_NO!_

In spite of the inferno coursing through me, I forced myself to run in the opposite direction of where every cell in my body yearned to go. The pull to go the other way took a toll on my speed; it felt like I was trying to run away from gravity.

I ended up making one gigantic, erratic circle and stopping at my spot by the river, and I was still both mentally and physically divided into two warring halves. Looking desperately at the water, I knew I ought to get into it, as I had some times before. It was worth a try. My hands twitched in desperation to get rid of my clothes, but I stopped, lest I rip them...

_Not an animal...I'm not an animal... control..._

I rushed through taking off my shoes and socks, rolled my pant legs up to my knees and hurriedly waded into cool, gentle shallows. My eyes closed and I went still except for my chest rising and collapsing with deep, slow breaths, trying to calm the raging cyclone of desire inside.

God damn it! Why, why did it have to be like this? I shouldn't be here, running away from what was natural to me.

I clung to hundreds of shards of dim human memory locked in my brain, like floating detritus after a shipwreck...

_Remember, remember... human... human..._

It was times like this when thoughts like that made the least sense; when the disconnect between me and Edward Masen, some teenaged human boy, was vast, and yet teasingly within reach. The memories were both more vivid and more distant, locked with me in some frenzied dance, a partner I'd struggled so hard to know in the last ten months. I knew those memories weren't really me; not as I was now, or would ever be again... but I had to try.

_Not human... not one of them, no. But of them. _Of_ them. Not a parasite. Rise above this instinct. It's just an instinct. Not a thought. Not anything of value._

My breathing slowly stopped as I stood in the water, internally reciting a babbling litany of reassurances until something coherent had a chance to take root.

Slowly, ever so slowly, sanity returned. It was a matter of outlasting the urge, concentrating on other stimuli. The gnawing in my stomach gradually decreased, my burning throat cooling by small increments... I'd learned the method all too well. This was a good place to do it, too- upwind from Grafton and most of the farms in the area; plenty of space, off trail...the water, rocks and silt under my feet...

Bitterness settled in as the thirst dissipated. Our guests had been there for all of two hours and seven minutes, and I'd already banished myself from the cabin – at least until Fletcher got his thirst under control. The next two days were going to be hell. All the preparation over the months hadn't prepared me for vicariously experiencing a real feeding, and our guests had plenty of memories of just that.

I wished I could just stay away the entire time, but of course that wouldn't work. I'd have to go back soon. In a little while, I would wander close enough to pick up on everyone's thoughts, and see if the coast was clear.

In the meantime, I contented myself as best I could in the water and dappled sunlight, allowing deep, even breaths to flood my senses with the perfume of an Indian summer. A few minutes of peace. In a little while, a sort of serenity stole over me.

Sometimes I thought that moments like this were the closest I would ever come again to sleeping; fully conscious, yes, but quiet and motionless, sightless...

And then I heard something strange behind me; a quarter mile to the northeast; a bird called, but no bird I'd ever heard before. I stopped breathing again, listening for its foreign coo. When it sounded eight seconds later, it was right behind me, and there were words with it... in the now-familiar cadence of Silesian.

In a split second I'd moved fifty feet to the other side of the river and whipped around to find Demetri standing calmly on the riverbank, hands folded in front of him. The sunlight played on his exposed face, revealing the glimmer of his skin, just like mine.

"It's the territorial song of a collared dove," he said. "They sometimes come into our gardens in Volterra; that is, as long as none of us are out in them. It's enchanting, no?"

I didn't answer, still shocked about my solitude being interrupted, my mind racing with guesses as to why he'd be out here, and cursing myself for being so distracted that I hadn't heard him sooner.

"My apologies for sneaking up on you," he offered amiably. "Covert tracking is, after all, my vocation. It's second nature to me. I imagine it's like you, unable to refrain from reading the minds of others, even if you don't want to."

My face probably betrayed a trace of the irritation I felt right then. His analogy was an obvious attempt at fostering kinship, and a bad one. He _could_ choose whom he tracked and when, but I truly had no choice about picking up on the thoughts of whomever was in the vicinity.

"Why did you follow me?" I demanded.

He gave me a serene half-smile. "Shortly after you left, I offered to find you so you could be informed that Fletcher has calmed his imagination, and that he is very sorry for being the cause of any discomfort. But, I confess, I volunteered because I wanted to speak privately with you, if I may."

Only the river's gentle rush filled the silence as he waited for me to issue an invitation. When it didn't come, he sighed in resignation. "It seems you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot. I apologize for any offense I may have caused."

I remained silent again, grudgingly refusing to be forced to invite him to speak further. After a few moments, I started to enjoy the fact that he was a more visual thinker. Silesian couldn't hide what I saw now. His mind was visiting all the things he'd said since arriving, trying to discern which would be the most offensive.

"Was it what I said about Stregone's little sculpture?" he inquired. I still said nothing, but something must have clued him in that he'd hit on the one that had gotten under my skin the most. "You must remember," he finally went on, "I've known your sire much longer than you have. Carlisle knows my disposition, as well as my opinions on all of that foolishness – well, I consider it foolishness. I never could sit through religious subjects being discussed with any seriousness. He knows this, and he knows I don't mean any personal offense... and he's never been offended, to my knowledge. Have you, perhaps, heard differently in his thoughts?"

He seemed to mean it as a sincere inquiry, and it was true enough- there hadn't been any resentment in Carlisle's mind while Demetri had called his theological muse "boring" and "drivel." He hadn't even been surprised by Demetri's starry-eyed rant about tearing faith out of his victims. However...

"It's irrelevant," I said blankly. "Volterra is your home, and he respected your views while he was a guest there. You're in his home now."

He bowed his head slightly. "You're right, of course. If I slip up in future, and say something that might seem... antagonistic, I hope you won't take me seriously. Nobody in Volterra does anymore," he smiled sardonically, but then his brow furrowed. "I must admit, I was surprised to learn that I know more about his 'views' than you do."

"I trust that he has good reasons for telling me things in his own time."

"So you don't know his reasons? How fascinating. He shrouds his thoughts, too."

"Very rarely. It doesn't matter, anyway. As I said, I trust him."

"Yes, you do trust. Most implicitly. I wonder if you know how rare it is for a fledgling to have such unquestioning faith in his sire. There's usually a filial bond, of course, but... you are especially devoted. It reminds me of how the twins so admire Aro."

I didn't respond, partly because I didn't like being compared to the monstrous girl in Fletcher's memory, or the idea that it looked like I was hanging onto Carlisle's coattails like a lost child. But I was also fighting back the impulse to contradict him - there was no way on God's green earth that Demetri would be the one I'd confess any of my thoughts of striking out on my own to. In fact, I had every reason to mislead him.

"I have no urge to leave Carlisle, or his way of life."

"Not even temporarily?"

I shook my head.

He gave a short sigh and looked down, frowning as if mulling over some troublesome thought, and his Silesian became clipped.

"Very well," he said after a moment. He looked back up with determination, clapping his hands once and rubbing them together. "As they say so often here, it seems I'm going to have to lay my cards out on the table." With that, the Silesian evaporated, morphing first into informal Italian, and then English, his thoughts humming around about needing to get me to listen to him, even if it meant letting down his defense against my ability. "Will you join me?" he asked, gesturing to the ground beside him.

Curious as I was about this turn of events, I hesitated, instinct gnawing at me to be suspicious. Then again, I thought, there's no harm in just going over there. It wasn't as if he was going to attack me, after all. Besides, I needed the rest of my clothes.

I leapt back over the water, past Demetri, and landed where my shoes and socks were. I sat down and put them back on, ignoring him as he strolled over and sat down to join me.

"Do you really have no interest at all in visiting Volterra?"

"None."

"That's too bad. I'm sure you know we had a great deal of interest in seeing you there. Carlisle has no doubt told you why you would be valued."

I nodded grudgingly, staring ahead.

"You were expecting us to try persuading you, correct?"

Again, I replied with a silent nod.

"Well, if it puts your mind at ease, let me say this: Fletcher's gift is unheard of. Should we go back to Volterra without you, the triad would be very gratified to have him instead. He's become our priority, not you."

I looked at him then, scrutinizing his features. His face was a mirror of his thoughts, which were turning over and over with deciding whether or not to confide something in me. And then he made up his mind.

"Edward, there are two ways we could go about things while we're here," he started. "We could employ all of our wiles to coax you into coming with us, or we could just tell you what the situation really is... although I'm sure you already know more than we do."

"What are you getting at? I thought you just said you weren't interested in me anymore."

"Recruiting you is not our priority, but we have to make a token effort, of course." He smirked, thinking back to the music we shared earlier, and their invitation and promises of travels. "But the fact of the matter is, we need your help, even if you don't come with us for long."

I looked away, jaw clenched, as his thoughts brought up Fletcher's second most-recent form. So _that's_ what I was supposed to know more about than they did.

"You've seen what's in his mind. He hasn't come with us quietly, and we're not foolish enough to think he's going to remain as calm as he's been here. We're anticipating trouble-"

"If you're expecting me to tell you his private thoughts, I don't do that-"

"We're not asking you to betray his privacy. However-"

"Yes, I know," I interrupted tersely. "I'm obligated to tell you if I find out that he's planning on being in breach of your laws, including any plans to get away."

After a brief moment, he nodded in concession.

"I'm grateful you're aware of that, but that's not actually what I mean."

"I don't know what else I can do to help," I grumbled. "You heard us while he was in my room. You know I'm encouraging him to go peaceably. Isn't that enough?"

"I also heard him ask if you were going with us as well. Don't tell me you didn't detect the curiosity... the _hope_ in his intonation."

My eyes narrowed at Demetri as understanding began to dawn.

"Yes, Edward. He would come with us easily if you were to come, as well, and if he saw that you were doing so of your own free will."

I locked my resentful gaze back on the river. Unfortunately, he was right.

"You're both new to this life," he continued. "You share many of the same uncertainties. You have the advantage, though. You're Stregone's fledgling, and your gift," he grinned, chuckling. "What a thing it must be! You've practically been to Volterra already, haven't you? Just through your sire's memories. Unlike Fletcher, you know there's nothing to fear- not for ones such as yourselves. If he saw you accepting our invitation, he would be compelled to come, too. He would want to, and our problem is solved."

"Except that I already told you I have no intention of joining your coven."

"I'm not asking you to join the Volturi. Well, that's not true. It would be splendid if you did, but it's not expected. What I'm suggesting is that you merely come with us on the journey to Volterra. Help us get him there in peace, that's all. After we get there you can turn right around and board the next ship to the States; return to these woods and hunt all the foul, four-legged creatures you like." He blanched momentarily, recalling the scents of various wildlife, and how much he particularly disliked the scent of boar, and how disgusting it would be to live on the blood of such an animal. He couldn't help comparing it to how divine it was to feed the way he did.

I braced myself for the imminent onslaught of agony, when his mental images would re-awaken instincts I'd just finished fighting off. But then something surprising happened; he stopped himself, remembering what his memories of feeding might do to me. Everything having to do with drinking human blood evaporated from Demetri's mind.

"My apologies," he said with a small frown, and then hissed distastefully as his thoughts did a slingshot back to his recollection of the scent of boar. "I will never understand why you would choose that."

"I've never had boar. There aren't any in these woods, anyway."

_He ought to visit the Apennines._ "I'd encourage you to try dining on the myriad wildlife within easy reach of Volterra, if only I could muster any enthusiasm for it," he said. "I'll have to settle for bribing you with other things."

I had to smile at that.

"So what do you think of my proposition?" he asked after a moment.

My smile faded as I mulled over what he'd said, deeply resenting the responsibility that had been thrust on me. And that's what bothered me; five minutes ago, I had no obligations. Technically, I still didn't. Fletcher's well-being, and their ease of transporting him, weren't my responsibilities.

"As a contingency plan, it's excessive," I said. "I haven't heard anything in Fletcher's thoughts that should make you worry. You don't really need me."

"Perhaps it is overcautious, but in such a situation, when the consequences of failure would be so severe, I believe any precaution is worthwhile. We both know he'll go in peace if you go as well. But if you don't... you know what will happen if he makes a poor decision about how to behave. It would be his end, no matter how gifted he is."

"I realize that."

"Only a week of your time... it would be a great favor to us."

I didn't want to go, at least not like that. Earlier, before Fletcher had morphed into a replica of me, Volterra seemed to have so many attractions, and it still did... but Fletcher's predicament was a raw reminder of the macabre things the Volturi did there so often. Just a week, though... long enough to get there and back. That's all.

Naturally, I expected they'd use that time to persuade me to make it a much lengthier sojourn, but that didn't worry me. I knew what I wanted, and it wasn't the Volturi, even if a visit sounded appealing. But could I do even that? Could I handle a week on board a ship packed with people? I'd only been around humans for a few hours at a time, and even then, there were so many close calls, my control hanging by a thread. Besides, I didn't enjoy the idea of tricking Fletcher into thinking I'd go, only to turn around and leave him there, having made a liar of myself.

But that was better than finding out in some letter from Aro, weeks from now, that Fletcher had never made it there at all.

My jaw set again, my gaze narrowing at the river as the same resentment surfaced again. _This shouldn't be my responsibility... I need to talk to Carlisle about it, find out what he thinks..._ It stung to catch myself thinking that... _Demetri's right. I do cling to Carlisle. I can decide this on my own, can't I? It's just a short trip. But he knows them. Maybe he'll be able to think of some other way..._

Meanwhile, Demetri sat patiently, wondering what I would say, sending me encouraging little pictures of what it would be like to cross the ocean; my first real journey. A secondary layer of thought hummed cautiously, decidedly controlled, and in Italian. Didn't he know I understood it?

_I can tell already there would be no problems as far as Stregone is concerned... he would have quibbled earlier, if he was going to..._

I resisted any change in expression that would betray my surprise. Would Carlisle really have no reservations about all this? I knew he didn't trust them completely. But I, too, had noticed that he hadn't raised any objections earlier when we were all at the piano. Not even in thought.

Why not?

I was jarringly uncomfortable with the idea that he'd let me go so easily. Now I _had_ to know what he'd say.

"I'll have to think about it," I said.

"Of course," Demetri said._ As you should._ "Do you feel sufficiently recovered to return to your... dwelling? If not, I would be happy to leave you to your solitude."

I couldn't resist an amused snort. Demetri was extremely good at veiled criticism. It wasn't only that, though... I'd just had a fun idea.

"I'm fine, but I would appreciate it if you let me be," I said, deliberately sounding more terse than I felt. "I came here to be alone, after all."

He stood. "Yes, you did, and I apologize for the intrusion. I will leave you," he said, somewhere between amused and conciliatory. So arrogant. "Thank you for hearing what I had to say."

I nodded dismissively, my gaze on the river. But my hearing remained keenly focused as he turned and smoothly departed, his pace picking up into a run and making a beeline for the cabin. He was fast.

But not anywhere near as fast as I was.

It didn't take long for him to cross out of hearing range, in both respects, and as soon as he had, I was on the move.

I cut away from his direction for a good mile before righting my path, hoping like hell that his gift wouldn't clue him into my proximity before I picked up on his. I ran as quietly as I could, using my sense of smell to keep well away from birds and other animals that might be startled and make an alarmed ruckus, broadcasting my approach.

As I soon learned, I didn't have to worry about that.

When he thought he was alone, Demetri was anything but stealthy, or attentive. He ambled along, heavy-footed and carefree, leaving plenty of startled wildlife in his wake. He hopped up onto branches and swung down again, having a grand old time... and he was singing an aria from _La Triviata_.

_"Libiamo, libiamo ne'lieti calici_  
_che la belleza infiora_  
_E la fuggevol, fuggevol ora s'inebrii a voluttà..."_

I couldn't help grinning when I saw him up ahead, utterly unaware of my approach. I picked up my pace for one last burst of speed, closing in...

_"Libiam ne'dolci fremiti_  
_che suscita l'amore,_  
_poiché quell'ochio al core onniposs_ente va..."

Whipping past him, I imitated the shriek of a red-tailed hawk, grazing his lower back with my hand.

Startled, Demetri shot up into a spruce, and I kept running ahead, laughing, picking up the aria where he'd left off.

_"Libiamo, amore, amor_  
_fra i calici più caldi baci avrà..._"

An enraged curse rained down from the spruce.

"Faccia di culo!"

(to be continued...)

* * *

_A/N & Translations:_

Faccia di culo: assface

The Brindisi aria (or "drinking song") from Verdi's La Triviata is very popular- you probably know it, even if you think you don't. Here is the url to a translation (note: only the first verse was used in the story):  
http: / www(dot)aria-database(dot)com/translations/traviata02_  
And to a performance:  
http:/ www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=NcKdnkGBSgA

If you read this chapter within the first few hours it was posted, I apologize. The italics didn't carry over in the formatting, and there were mistakes that my proofreading didn't catch until after I posted. (That always happens. Ugh.) Anyways, I've corrected it now, and hope I caught it all this time.

To those of you whose interest is piqued by Carlisle's little plaque, well, all good things... though it feels crummy to tease you about waiting.

Thank you for reading, and to those who've been waiting, thank you for your saint-like patience.


	15. There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt II

Chapter 14 - There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Part II

* * *

_"There is no God," the wicked saith,_

_"And truly, it's a blessing,_

_For what He might have done with us,_

_It's only better guessing."_

_"Whether there be," a rich man says,_

_"It matters very little, for I and mine,_

_Thank somebody,_

_Are not in want of victual."_

_Some others, to themselves,_

_Who scarce so much as doubt it,_

_Think there is none, when they are well,_

_And think no more about it._

- from _There is No God, the Wicked Saith,_ by Arthur Hugh Clough

* * *

**I slowed** to just a shade faster than a human-paced stroll as I approached the cabin, beaming in triumph.

Everyone was outside. Carlisle and Fletcher were on the porch, Fletcher sitting on the rail, listening intently to Carlisle, who was evidently in the middle of being quizzed about our way of hunting. Chelsea and Santiago were on a blanket spread out on a small patch of grass, Santiago reading a French play aloud to Chelsea. She was basking, crystalline in the sunlight, with her eyes closed, obviously enjoying herself.

I puzzled over that with part of my mind. During these mostly secluded months, I'd been able to spend ample time in sunlight, and I tried to think if it had ever _felt _good.

With the exception of Chelsea, who just smiled without opening her eyes, they all looked at me as I approached, too giddy to be self-conscious.

_He looks so well. _Carlisle gave me a puzzled, but pleased, smile. _ I take it you feel better?_

I nodded at him as I walked, and my smile faltered as Demetri's words echoed in my mind. Had I really misread Carlisle so much? Would he just give his blessing if I wanted to leave with them for a week or two, no arguments at all?

Santiago's reading had stopped as I approached, and he gazed at me with something like expectation. I paused by the blanket he and Chelsea were on.

"Did Demetri find you?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied, my grin returning. "He can sneak up on anyone, right?"

Just then the subject of conversation showed up, announcing himself by leaping down and sliding to a stop with enough force to send a spray of fallen leaves, dirt and clumps of sodden grass onto the pair of vampires on the blanket.

Chelsea shot to her feet along with Santiago, hissing at the filth she'd been showered with, which she started trying to shake off. Santiago snorted in annoyance.

"It's ruined," Chelsea lamented over her now-stained dress. "You are so childish!" she hissed at Demetri, and then turned, storming towards the cabin.

Demetri laughed, noticing the soiled, forlorn book on the blanket. "What, no more Moliere? But I adore_ Tartuffe!_"

Without breaking stride, she looked over her shoulder at him with a crimson-eyed glare that would probably turn most creatures to stone, but he kept laughing.

Carlisle and Fletcher both leaned away from her as she flew up the porch.

"My apologies, _Stregone_," she muttered, swishing into the cabin.

Demetri's laugh turned gleeful as he clapped, applauding himself for such a coup, as if upsetting Chelsea was difficult to do.

_Well, it doesn't take him long to bounce out of a bad mood, _I thought. After I'd startled him, Demetri had raced after me, relishing a challenge. He couldn't come close to catching up, but along the way, his thoughts turned giddy- one moment admitting how fast I was, the next swearing he'd find a way to best me. His sheer delight had been contagious.

I had to admit, it had turned into... _fun... _even when his thoughts had slipped back to Silesian, which wasn't really a surprise. I'd suspected his candidness wouldn't last.

Santiago picked up Carlisle's copy of Moliere's works and shook dirt and grass out of it, his gaze roaming from me to Demetri with suspicious curiosity.

"What happened?"

"Edward surprised me on our way back," Demetri said, throwing an arm around my neck in comraderie. "I haven't been successfully ambushed in three hundred-seventy years. You're owed congratulations, my young friend."

"You're taking it rather well," Santiago mused at his covenmate.

"'Tis nothing to be upset about."

"You called me an assface," I reminded him.

"Are you sure Demetri wasn't talking about himself?" Chelsea said, reemerging from the cabin.

A few moments were all she'd needed to freshen up and put on clean clothes- in this case, a diaphanous gown of deep gray with a burgundy sash. Still no gloves, shoes or stockings, though. I honestly didn't see how the ensemble was less attractive than the first, but she obviously considered it so. She speedily approached the three of us and yanked up the blanket, which she shook off, flipping some of the dirt onto me and Demetri, who chuckled.

"I purchased that dress when I arrived in New York," she huffed, "and today was the first I'd worn it. So much for my first bit of fashion from the New World."

"I could wash it for you," I offered.

Immediately, everyone's stares fell on me.

Amused.

Interested.

Fletcher's familiar "voice" broke away from his conversation with Carlisle. _Jeez, I hope he's not keen on her. Leastwise, he wouldn't be if he saw her mate._

I resisted the urge to shrink up and start defending myself._ "What? She's a guest! You're supposed to offer stuff like that to guests! It's not special attention... is it?"_

Instead, I kept my posture relaxed and my eyes politely on Chelsea, ignoring Demetri's sardonic gaze, futiley pretending to be unaware of what everyone was thinking, Silesian or no. Chelsea drifted back down to the blanket with a smile one might bestow upon a smitten child who's just offered to let you borrow his favorite toy.

"That is very sweet of you, Edward, but I'm afraid the fabric is too delicate to stand up to that kind of cleaning. It was custom-made,_ of course,_" she added, turning a poisonous glare at Demetri.

He groaned, his arm falling from me. "You're going to keep on and on about this, aren't you? It was just a scrap of fabric."

"You know I don't get to shop outside Italy often," she replied.

"As if you aren't going to order more frocks before we depart New York."

She gave a small, exasperated sigh and closed her eyes again, settling back. "I'm not going to 'keep on' about anything, so stop whining. I haven't been able to lie in the sun in peace since leaving Volterra. We're here to relax, and I wish to do so." She flicked her hand in our general direction, as if shooing pesky dogs.

But she spoke an English thought to me.

_Not you, sweet Edward. Please, keep me company._

Demetri and Santiago exchanged glances, both knowing and amused, and Demetri followed Santiago into the cabin to put away the book.

I wanted to stay where I was, just like Chelsea requested. This little exchange she'd just had with Demetri had raised several puzzling questions... but my gaze swept to the porch, and Carlisle. I had to ask him. Had to tell him.

But she'd know I'd heard her. She'd think I was snubbing her outright, or, worse, that I was up to something. Maybe telling Carlisle could wait. There was time...

My nostrils filled with the muddy scent of soil on my clothes, and I realized my opportunity had come.

"I'd be happy to," I murmured amiably. "I just have to change first."

She nodded, quiet except the hum of that foreign language. Carlisle's thoughts, however, audibly snapped right to what I'd said.

_Clements? _he asked.

My eyes moved in positive response.

"Demetri," Carlisle said without moving, addressing the keen-eared vampire inside with Santiago, "is the Moliere soiled?"

A snort preceded the reply. "There's no such thing as pristine Moliere,_ Stregone_, but your precious bit of prose is intact, if that's what you mean. It can rest in peace, here on these shelves, next to lesser authors... such as this Longfellow. Looks like dreadful stuff," came the lazy reply. "An American poet? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"You haven't been in the New World long enough to gauge its true assetts, my friend," Carlisle said with a wry smile, keeping his eyes trained on me as I hopped to the porch over the stairs. "There are excellent authors here. Speaking of which, Edward, you've been squirelling away all the Twain. Why don't you bring _Tom Sawyer_ out with you? I'll read a few passages to our guests later, and we'll see how they feel about American prose afterwards."

"Sure," I replied, speeding through the door without paying attention to the two vampires in the living room I passed through, focusing only on what I needed to tell Carlisle. I organized my thoughts quickly, realizing that I couldn't take suspiciously long once I got to the bedroom.

I shut its door behind me, paranoia creeping up.

Noise.

I had to be so careful about _noise._

In quiet conditions, I could hear the scratch of Carlisle's pen from here when he was in the living room. If they heard me writing, they'd put it together.

_Speed and precision, blend one sound with another.._.

I plucked Twain's novel off the shelves on the way to be wardrobe, and then took off my shirt and put it on my desk with the opened book on top of it. I rifled through the wardrobe, pulling out not just fresh clothes, but a pencil I'd left in one of the jacket pockets. Soft lead, no metal nubs...

It was Fletcher's thoughts I paid attention to the most, since they were undisguised. He obviously heard nothing of what I was up to aside from changing, and the Silesian in other minds didn't change in cadence. Carlisle, however, was listening very closely; _Paradise Lost _had slowed just a touch. But he did say something over it:

_Very good. _

Relieved, I went about my business, the swish and snap of fabric blending into my other activity as I alternately wrote a few words, then put an arm through a sleeve, etc. I made a point to let the soiled clothes fall onto the floor with careless thumps...

It was with precarious confidence that I left the room. I strolled past Demetri, who was eyeballing the piano again, and Santiago, who was perusing Dante, to the porch. Once there, I stretched my hand out to Carlisle, bearing _Tom Sawyer_.

"Thanks," he monotoned without looking at me, and then set the book disinterestedly on the porch rail he leaned against, listening to Fletcher.

"... no, my skin doesn't feel like it's burning, but it hurts like hell. It's like blades and electricity combined... and inside I feel my bones expanding, or compressing. The worst thing is, it doesn't just happen on its own, you know? I have to _concentrate_ to keep the change happening until it's complete. If I don't, oh, God, it's a mess. I end up looking like some half-bred thing from a bad science experiment..."

Carlisle chuckled at Fletcher's animated description of his talent as I slunk down the porch stairs. I knew he was probably just being cautious by ignoring the book for now... can't show too much interest... but it still smarted that I couldn't even hear him express interest inside. He really seemed captivated by Fletcher.

I'd once tried detailing for him what my talent felt like, but he was plainly let down. There was no physical sensation to relate; no energy or pain or euphoria, no discernable process to break down.

"_It's just like hearing and seeing, except inside,"_ I'd said.

His vocal response had been, _"Hm."_ Internally, _Too bad it can't be broken down into more scrutible terms._

Fletcher had plenty of specifics, though, and I heard interest in nothing else from Carlisle's Milton-numbed mind.

Chelsea's mental energy picked up, though, her Silesian quickening, and drew my attention.

_Edward, do you ever lay in the sun? _she asked silently,peeking one eye open as I approached. She took in the sight of my fresh attire, flashing an approving smile.

"Not the way you are," I replied. "Does it feel good?"

She nodded with a luxurious sigh, patting an empty patch of blanket next to her. _It will. Join me._

I obliged, curious, and not just about her sunbathing. I stretched out, closing my eyes, letting the sensation of the sun's warmth concentrate on me. I scanned my scraps of human memory, trying to find anything related to basking in the sun for its own sake, and came up empty. The only thing that presented itself was a dim image of red arms, considerably smaller than the ones I possessed now, with concentric patches of flaking skin, and a residual memory of thinking it was painful.

Well, I was immune to sunburns now, contrary to human folklore.

Chelsea's rose and bergamot fragrance was close; more permeating than the sun, at any rate.

"I don't see what the big deal is," I confessed after a few minutes.

"Just wait. You have all the time in the world," she said serenely. "A little patience would suit you better."

"I suppose you have a lot of patience."

"What makes you think so?"

I didn't answer right away; my thoughts were so alive with the questions that had led me to that observation...

"You said you don't get to shop outside of Italy often," I murmured. "Why not? Earlier, you made it sound like you travel all the time."

"So young," she murmured, her lips curving into a gentle, patient smile. "Many in our coven travel for pleasure, but there are those of us who've seen the world a hundred times over, Edward. After so long, and seeing so much, all of it a mere repetition of what came before, there ceases to be any point in seeking more. Volterra holds all the fascination one needs." Her words took me back to Carlisle's visual memories of the Volturi brothers; an odd-looking trio, settling anciently into stasis. "I, however, haven't seen as much as they have, and still like to travel," she continued. "I'm free to leave when I choose, of course, but I have responsibilities, and must be more judicious than most of my covenmates. Master Aro doesn't care to be without me for long, and I don't like to disappoint him."

_Master Aro. _Just like the young girl-vampire Fletcher remembered so vividly. I wondered if every member of the coven had to address the triad that way._ Master_ Aro, _Master_ Caius, _Master_ Marcus.

_Master Carlisle_. I ran the phrase through my mind, imagining what it would be like if Carlisle demanded that I utter it whenever I addressed him. As a result, I had to swallow guffaws of laughter. I managed to keep it back, grateful for not giving away that I was amused by part of what she'd said, but also that Carlisle didn't have grandiose expectations of being worshiped by those he bestowed "the gift of immortality" upon, to use the phrase Aro had in his letter.

The rest of what she'd said, though, especially earlier... there was still something nagging at me about it, and it made me remember their first hour here... Santiago and Demetri bantering about American entertainment, their observations... Chelsea had remained silent, as if she had nothing to contribute.

"You really haven't had any time to do this since leaving Volterra? I mean, you've been here for months," I commented nonchalantly.

She smiled again, and I listened for a change in tone from her mental murmurs. There was a single, shallow spike, but nothing that stood out apart from it.

"I wasn't sent out on assignment with the others, actually. I set foot in the New World only twenty nights ago."

I spliced together the timeframe- that would have meant she'd arrived in New York only two or three nights before Fletcher's coven was ambushed. Now that I thought back to his memory of the event, part of what was nagging at me made a little more sense. Chelsea hadn't been there when his coven was attacked... but she _had _been at the rendezvous after Demetri had captured him.

"Why did you come?"

"I missed Afton so terribly; I simply couldn't wait any longer."

An image came with her words, of seeing her mate after months of separation. The look on his face was pure rapture, their embrace swift and consuming.

Carlisle had never elaborated much about the enigma of vampire mating, despite my many curious questions. It wasn't that he was holding anything back; he just didn't have any personal experience to relate; only a few facts and observations.

"_The transformation renders our kind unable to have offspring as a result of sexual union," _he'd explained._ "Our only method of reproduction, I'm sorry to say, you've already endured." His features clouded, as they always did when the subject of my change came up, his thoughts turning to a complicated maze of regrets and ponderings._

"_Then why have mates?" I pressed._

"_Companionship, as best as I can tell. Like humans, we have desires. Our passions, as you know, are not only intact, but... greater. Love and lust are no exceptions. I've met some who thrive on hedonistic, short-lived unions, pursuing physical pleasure, and even some who dabble in it as a hobby. But the truly mated pairs... it's a curious phenomenon..." his voice drifted off into silence for a few moments as his mind took over, providing images of vampire pairs he'd known who had found eternal mates. _

_Among them were Chelsea and Afton. _

"_I've never seen such devotion," he murmured contemplatively. "The love mates feel must be tremendous. It doesn't diminish, even after thousands of years. The bond, they say, only gets stronger with time. Not even death changes it; at least, not for the one who remains. When one of our kind loses their mate, they simply aren't whole beings anymore. Most humans recover from lost love, at least enough to eventually rekindle it with another. But not us. It's as if existence itself loses purpose._

"_Marcus is like that. His Didyme was destroyed in an ancient conflict when the Volturi were rising to power, oh, so long ago. He's barely participated in the world around him since then; a mere shell of a being. It's a sad thing to behold." _

_His recollections of the most sedentary of the three Volturi brothers were, indeed, sad, the polar opposite of the contentment and joy of the living pairs._

All the same, mate or not, I couldn't believe that Afton was Chelsea's real reason for coming here. Her presence here belied that.

"Why didn't you go with him to New York?" I asked. "Demetri and Santiago seem capable of handling Fletcher."

"I will see my beloved very soon," she said contentedly, "but there's no knowing when I might again have the chance to see our old friend; I couldn't pass up the opportunity. And _you_, of course," she added, looking at me with a teasing eye. "I had to see the one_ Stregone_ _Benefici_ found so compelling."

I smiled half-heartedly, studiously keeping it to myself that it wasn't me he'd found so compelling, but loneliness and a mortal woman who'd seen what he was and begged that her son be saved.

And I didn't buy Chelsea's explanation- at least not completely. She was leaving something out. She _had_ to be here for a reason; I'd known it ever since Carlisle had let something slip when she arrived with the others:

_So that's how it's going to be, is it, Aro?_

What was Chelsea supposed to do while she was here? She must have a gift to employ, somehow. I regretted not using the message in the book to ask Carlisle what it was. But then, if she had some dread gift, I wouldn't have to ask. He'd warn me, wouldn't he?

Maybe I was reading too much into it.

"_Master Aro doesn't care to be without me for long_... _I have responsibilities..."_

It sounded like she was valued by the triad to such an extent that she didn't often leave their side.

The timing of her arrival... she wouldn't have known about Fletcher when she left Italy. He was a surprise find. Why was she sent here?

There must be a talent.

Was she here to use it?

When would she use it?

As I mused, a sense of comforting heat crept up on me. I rested a hand on my stomach... the afternoon sun had warmed my clothing, despite the cold of my skin. It was rather pleasant.

"You feel it?" she asked, noticing my movement.

"Yes," I murmured, smiling.

Demetri was playing again, and this time I recognized Chopin. He'd deliberately chosen one of my favorites.

Despite the games that I knew were probably being played, I was glad they were here. It was, if nothing else, interesting... so new.

I regretted that thought in the next moment.

"No," I breathed, shooting to my feet, my sight set on Fletcher.

"...I'd been dabbling in human medicine before I was in Volterra, " Carlisle was saying to him as I approached the porch, "but have only practiced it consistently in the last hundred years. My resistance to openly flowing blood was finally strong enough by then..." he paused, his brow furrowing when he saw the look on my face.

"Not now," I warned Fletcher.

My twin's black gaze glowered at me.

"What is it?" Carlisle asked, wary. "Fletcher?"

Chelsea was still out by the blanket, but standing. My swift departure and words to Fletcher had attracted attention, but that was inevitable. Fletcher's plan would attract everyone's attention. Demetri's playing had stopped, and both he and Santiago came out to the porch.

"Why not?" Fletcher asked, trying to stare me down.

"You are going to need... _more_ before your trip. You're not used to it. It won't be enough."

"What's going on?" Santiago's voice was calm, but demanding.

Fletcher's gaze tumbled to the wooden slats of the porch flooring.

"I just want to try it."

"Try what? What is he going on about?" Demetri asked.

Carlisle looked at me, his eyes widening as he started to understand. I nodded in confirmation.

Fletcher stood away from railing, resolute as he addressed his captors. "Tonight, when I go hunting, I want to stay away from humans."

* * *

**_(to be continued...)_**

* * *

Thank you for reading, and especially to those who review.


	16. There is No God, The Wicked Saith Pt III

Chapter 15 - There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Part III

"_There is no God," the wicked saith,_

"_And truly, tis a blessing,_

_For what He might have done with us,_

_It's only better guessing."_

"_Whether there be," a rich man says,_

"_It matters very little, for I and mine,_

_Thank somebody,_

_Are not in want of victual."_

_Some others, to themselves,_

_Who scarce so much as doubt it,_

_Think there is none, when they are well,_

_And think no more about it._

- from _There is No God, the Wicked Saith_, by Arthur Hugh Clough

* * *

_"Tonight, when I go hunting, I'm going to stay away from humans."_

There was a split second of utter silence in the other minds around me.

Demetri, in jaw-slackened shock, looked at Chelsea out on the blanket, as if her reaction was key. She was visibly stunned, but more than that, she looked _thwarted, _and Demetri's expression changed in an instant. He snorted, and then the dam broke. He started laughing was so hard that, had he been human, tears would have rolled down his cheeks.

Ignoring him, Chelsea sped to the porch in a storm of gray fabric and came face-to-face with Fletcher, who didn't flinch under her sharp gaze.

"No!" she hissed.

"You can't stop me from trying it," he retorted.

Santiago rolled his eyes and groaned, "_Merda._"

"Aro's going to love this!" Demetri bellowed out through his laughter.

Chelsea turned her glare to him; it was plain that she was the butt of whatever joke was running around in his mind.

It was Carlisle's reaction that most intrigued me though. For just the briefest moment, a distinctly smug smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as he observed Chelsea's impotent outrage.

Was I the only one besides Chelsea who was genuinely perturbed? This couldn't work out well! Didn't they see that?

"You can't right now," I repeated to Fletcher. "It's not going to be enough."

He turned on me, seething.

"You're such a hypocrite; all your smug superiority about not taking human life! What is it? Am I not good enough for your crappy diet?"

I swallowed back a growl along with an influx of venom, forcing myself to keep in mind how thirsty he was. It had to be wreaking havoc with his temper.

Santiago, however, didn't hold back. He gripped Fletcher's shoulder and spun him around so they were nose-to-nose.

"You are a guest here," he said menacingly, "and you will act like it." He released my twin by shoving him down into a porch chair that skidded back several feet. Impressively, Fletcher still wasn't cowed. His glare stayed sharp, his mind hissing with insults as Santiago joined Demetri, whose laughter had calmed into soft snickers. Santiago exchanged a look of dark agreement with Chelsea before speaking again.

"If you'll excuse us,_ Stregone_, the three of us need to consult in private," he said. "Do you mind looking after the changeling for a short while?"

Carlisle shook his head, and then joined me in staring after the three Volturi guards, who glided down the stairs in single file, somber and graceful. Birdsong hushed as they shimmered away into the woods.

Still, we waited for a few moments. It was only when my head was clear of Slavic monologues that I knew they were truly gone, and, finally, a lone bird let out a tentative chirp, which was answered by another.

Then something so welcome happened; _Paradise Lost _disintegrated, and Carlisle's thoughts started humming openly to me.

If only Fletcher wasn't around. I had to talk to Carlisle, but there was only so much I could say in my twin's presence, and we couldn't leave him alone. Still, it was a relief to hear Carlisle again... until I noticed the _tone _of his thoughts. It was impossible for any of our kind to get tired, but his mental voice was sluggish, as if he'd been under great strain. I'd detected it earlier- the pace of the Milton slowing- but chalked it up to difficulty in keeping his thoughts so well-shrouded. But his open, undisguised voice was just as hampered.

_You're right, _he was telling me._ Animals won't be enough for him just before he gets onto a ship with all those people. He'll end up having a bloodthirsty fit somewhere on the Atlantic._

"He's not going to take my word for it."

He frowned._ Yes... I'll tell him... _

We both turned to Fletcher, who was still in the chair, glowering. His look darkened further when he saw Carlisle's solemn expression.

_Oh, Christ. _"Not you, too," he grumbled.

"I'm loathe to dissuade you, but Edward's right. These are poor circumstances to change your feeding habits under. Perhaps when you've been in Volterra for a while, after you've settled in, you'll be permitted to go into nearby wildernesses to hunt... if you still want to, by then."

"That's just it. By then I _won't_ want to. I want to do it now, before they've got their hooks into me," he replied quickly.

That's when I saw a scenario rolling around in his head so naive that it was more sad than ridiculous, and I had to remind myself how much more I knew about the Volturi than Fletcher did. Carlisle's explanations about our way of life _had _ignited a spark of conscience, but there was something else he was fostering hope for, as well. I hated to disillusion him.

"Even if you go out tonight and miraculously find that you're content with animal blood," I said carefully, "it's not going to change anything. You'll still have to go with them."

"Why? This is all about punishment, right?" His now-beseeching gaze turned to Carlisle. "You were one of them. Being in your custody would be enough, wouldn't it?"

_Oh, no. He's really thinking that I could-?_

"Yes," I said hollowly.

"I was only the Volturi's guest, Fletcher. I wasn't officially a member of the coven, and even if I had been, my influence here would be just as limited. They want you in Volterra, and that's all there is to it."

Fletcher stilled, his gaze becoming hard as he stared out into the woods where the trio had recently disappeared. _So it really is all about my talent. I should never have used it when I was trying to get away from the tracker. They never would have found out... but then I'd be dead. Shit! Isn't there _any_ way out of this? _

"No, there isn't," I said, "and if you make some getaway plan while you're here, all you'll do is take us down with you."

Fletcher hissed. "I haven't been making any God-damned getaway plans, and you know it, you mind-reading freak!"

"_'Freak?'_ You want to talk about freaks? How about someone who shows up and transforms into _me_?"

"I wouldn't have done it if I had a choice. You'd know that, if you were even half as powerful as you're supposed to be!"

"I know you didn't want to, but if you think your talent is any less freakish to me than mine is to you, you've got another thing coming!"

Carlisle's concern was building, and the added stress in his tone was almost palpable. _Edward, please calm down..._

"Well, I'll stick with my brand of freakishness, thank you very much," Fletcher grumbled, his face never more disturbingly like a reflection as his black gaze latched onto mine. "Better this than the way you are. I can't even _think_ of feeding without you running off like some pansy."

That one stung. A growl curled into my throat.

"Stop, both of you."_ This argument is juvenile at best, Edward._

I knew he was right, and Carlisle's comment prevented me from saying something_ really_ childish, like, "I want my clothes back." It didn't stop the rage, though.

Trying to funnel my anger elsewhere, I stalked impotently to the other end of the porch, away from Fletcher's thirst-fueled hostility and Carlisle's reprimand. I wanted to grasp the rail and tear at it in frustration; pulverizing it into splinters and dust was fine by me. What wasn't fine, though, was that _they _would see the damage when they got back. They'd catch my scent on it, and wonder why I'd lost my temper.

I clenched my fists instead.

_Are you alright? _Carlisle asked, and, yet again, the gaunt reediness of his mental tone disturbed me. For whatever reason, he was suffering much more than I was, and shame crept up, blanketing my anger.

I took a long, calming breath and turned back around with a nod.

"What about you?" I asked.

_I'm fine. If I seem a little slow, pay it no mind. _

Fletcher, hearing only one side of this conversation, was busy processing the strange dynamics of how I usually communicated with Carlisle. Immediately, he settled into suspicion. _What is Cullen saying about me?_

I ignored Fletcher's paranoia, still preoccupied with Carlisle's obvious distress. He may have told me to pay it no mind, but that was like telling me to ignore it if he was on fire. Something was wrong. My mentor's gaze was long and troubled, and the images in his mind were of things I didn't realize he'd been paying attention to before: me at the piano with Chelsea, admiring Demetri's skill; the way I'd stared at her after coming back from my room with Fletcher; the two of us on the blanket, less than ten minutes ago.

He lingered on these images and then seemed to cave in.

_Edward, I can't help but ask... are you feeling altered in any way? _

I shook my head, confused, and tried to connect his question to the images of Chelsea. Maybe, like everyone else, he wondered if I was falling for her. "You don't have to worry about me being infatuated with her," I ventured. "I'm not."

Carlisle smiled tepidly. _I'm not referring to infatuation, per se. _

_Is that all? They're just talking about the woman? _"There's something weird about her," Fletcher muttered. "She's up to something, I can tell."

We both focused on him_._

"What do you mean?" Carlisle asked.

"Don't you feel it?" Fletcher replied, looking at both of us.

I sure as hell didn't know what he was talking about, but knew straightaway that Carlisle did.

_Could he have really picked up on it?_ he wondered to himself.

Fletcher blanched at our blank expressions and then shook his head, beginning to doubt himself.

"I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining it. I only felt it for a little while."

"Felt what?" I asked, unable to mine the information from Carlisle's thoughts.

"I don't know... it's just that, well... after the tracker caught me and took me to where the rest of them were- that cornfield-" Little Jane's demonic gaze flashed through his mind before he shuddered away from it... "The woman was there, too, but she was new to me. She hadn't been with them before. And it didn't start then, but in the car later, on the way here... it's hard to describe, but I started to feel like I was where I was supposed to be, and that didn't make sense. I didn't even know where they were taking me or what they were going to do to me, but I still felt it, and something told me it wasn't coming from the other two. It had to be her." His confused expression searched within for some kind of explanation. "It almost felt like..."

"... you belonged?" Carlisle finished.

Both mine and Fletcher's gazes snapped to Carlisle.

"Yeah," Fletcher confirmed cautiously, just a breath of a word. "It lasted until about an hour before we got here." His thoughts whirred. _Cullen knew. He knew she's got some sort of gift and he hasn't said anything about it. _ _That means they _both_ know._ _God, I'm an idiot. Of course they know! Here I am, asking if _they_ can feel what she's doing, and all I've done is give away that I know something. Just like I am now. _He turned a frustrated glower on me. _I take it back. I _would_ trade talents with you._

My breathing had stopped as I'd reached the same conclusions Fletcher had. Paranoid as he was, I wished he was right about all of it. He apparently saw Carlisle and me as more of a unit than Carlisle did. I _should_ have known about her talent. Why hadn't he told me?

It was hard to stomach how duped I'd been. Just a little while ago, I'd been out on that blanket with Chelsea, feeling smug about all the information I'd gleaned from her, idly wondering when she might use her mysterious gift. All along, I'd been under its influence.

So that's what she did... a sense of belonging... that warm, alluring draw to them I'd felt since they got here, especially when Chelsea was paying special attention to me. And Carlisle had known the whole time? That was unfathomable. He'd been _allowing_ me to be manipulated! I couldn't believe it.

No wonder he'd asked if I was feeling altered.

I crossed the porch and approached Carlisle, making sure my back was to Fletcher when I stopped so he wouldn't see the frustration burning in my expression, silently demanding to be told what the hell was going on.

My mentor gazed back somberly.

_Chelsea breaks and forges bonds, Edward. Do you understand?_

Unfortunately, I did. It was about much more than a sense of belonging, then, wasn't it? All my suspicions made sense now. That's why the Volturi kept her close to Volterra, where her talent could keep coven loyalties in line. That's why she was rarely sent out on missions, when destruction was the only goal. That's why she'd only joined the others for this leg of their journey. Her purpose here was to affix a bond between me and the Volturi. She was the best recruiting tool they had.

I let the resulting confusion speak in my expression: why, why, _why_ hadn't he warned me?

_I wasn't going to worry you about it unless it was necessary. _

There he went again with the whole "not worrying me" bit, damn it! Like I was some delicate little thing that had to be sheltered from poisonous knowledge. Again,I let my glare do the talking.

_It's alright, Edward. She isn't even devoting the majority of her energy to you. The attraction you feel to them... it's vague and general, isn't it?_

My facial features twitched in incredulity as if to say, "Yes, but so what?"

_If her gift was going to work on us effectively, it would have by now._ _I've seen how those in her thrall behave, and you haven't been exhibiting those behaviors; at least, not enough to worry about. __She has limitations, especially here. She can't use the full extent of her power without the presence of the triad. She doesn't forge Volturi bonds to herself, but to _them._ The most she can do here is create a general sense of kinship. _

I cast my gaze down, mulling it over.

That warm belonging I'd felt before... I had to admit, I was slightly disappointed it was false. As for what she may have done to me as far as _breaking_ bonds... had I felt differently about Carlisle? Tracing back over the day, there had been times I'd felt distracted_,_ and perhaps even a little distant, but nothing had fundamentally changed. After all, I could now admit to myself that it was a twinge of jealousy that I'd experienced over Carlisle's attention to Fletcher...

Carlisle was still speaking to me, and the tone... the weariness was worrying me. What was wrong?

_After Fletcher's announcement about trying animal blood, I expect you'll feel even less of her manipulations. He said he hasn't felt her influence since before arriving here. She concentrated on us, never expecting him to develop a desire to stay here. She'll probably go back to focusing on him now. _

I remembered Chelsea's stunned reaction to their prisoner's rebellious desire to hunt animals... how flouted she'd looked. So that's why Demetri had laughed at her.

Fletcher muttered an oath behind us, frustrated by our silent conversation, which was only ratcheting up his paranoia.

Carlisle's primary thoughts shifted.

_I hate to ask this of you, but don't tell Fletcher about the specifics of Chelsea's talent. Since he's on to her, we should volunteer something to satisfy his suspicions, but not the entire truth. Her gift could make the difference in whether he lives or dies. He's a creature of whim, and what she's able to do may keep him steady during the rest of their journey. _

At that point I wanted to tell him about the conversation with Demetri, but given Fletcher's current mood, maybe my accompanying them on the rest of their trip wouldn't do any good, anyway. He didn't like me much right now. Besides, it was in the book.

I had to hand it to my doppelganger- he'd sensed Chelsea's ability in a way I hadn't. Being a mind-reader didn't seem so powerful all of a sudden, if all it took was an obscure eastern European language to be thwarted. I had to remind myself that these particular vampires, besides having existed for centuries, were extremely used to gifted companions, one of whom was also a mind-reader. Compared to Aro's instantaneous, all-consuming, tactile reception, my abilities probably _were _easy to prepare for.

Fletcher was looking a little browbeaten again, his thoughts bitter. _So I guess she'll just come back here and make me feel happy about all this somehow. Maybe that's not such a bad thing, since there's no way out._

I turned around.

"That's not quite how it works," I told Fletcher, making it sound like I was giving up the information reluctantly. "Chelsea doesn't make you feel happy so much she just creates a sense of comfort."

"It's a very weak gift," Carlisle fibbed. "You don't have to worry about being unduly influenced."

Fletcher eyed us warily, not completely buying our story. At the same time, he didn't _dis_believe us, since what we described matched what he'd felt earlier. He gazed again out at the woods where the trio disappeared, his paranoia shifting to what they might be discussing out there.

"What do you think they'll do?" he ventured. "Are they going to punish me for wanting to drink animal blood?"

"You still intend to try it tonight?" Carlisle asked.

"Might as well... if they let me, I guess." He didn't say it out loud, but Fletcher was still intrigued by the idea of not having to kill human beings to survive.

"You were going hunting anyway; what prey you choose is up to you. They can't punish someone who isn't breaking the law, no matter how much they disapprove."

"And you?" Fletcher asked. His eyes made a silent appeal. "Do you still think it's a bad idea?"

"Under these circumstances, I do."

Fletcher looked away again, his thoughts matching his dejected demeanor.

"Please don't misunderstand; I'm glad you want to try our way of hunting, but our diet is difficult to maintain even in the best circumstances. You're under severe strain now, and there's still a transatlantic journey in front of you. It won't be enough."

_I just want to try it, for crying out loud!_ _I can't believe he's on their side about this!  
_

"Is that what you're going to tell _them_?" he grumbled.

Carlisle's gaze flitted to me. _Is he really that set on it?_

I nodded. Fletcher was digging in on this, more and more determined with every naysayer.

"If you don't wish me to, then, no. However, I would feel better about it if..." he drifted off, galled by what he was about to say... the moral quandary went round and round in his head, the balance of taking life to save it...

"What?" Fletcher asked, impatient.

"After you feed tonight, if you still feel very thirsty, promise that you'll feed again... normally... before you all leave tomorrow evening."

That confused me. "But I thought they were staying until Wednesday morning."

Carlisle shook his head minutely. "While you were gone, the subject of the weather came up. It's going to be clear for the next two days from here to the coast. If they're going to drive exclusively at night, they'll need the extra time..." a_nd Chelsea's rather keen on having at least one day and night in New York._

I wasn't sure how to take that (although it was funny to think that, surprised by my bat-out-of-hell departure, the group had turned to talking about the weather), but couldn't help feeling a measure of relief. It was only a matter of ten hours sooner that they'd leave, but it was a welcome development.

Unlike Fletcher's hunting plans.

"Can you do that?" Carlisle continued. "Be honest with yourself about how thirsty you still may be after hunting tonight?"

Fletcher nodded. _That's fair enough, I guess. _"So you won't tell them that you disapprove, then?"

Carlisle shook his head.

"Thanks."

I silently disagreed, and Carlisle noticed my constipated expression.

_Let's give him the benefit of the doubt for now, Edward._

"Alright," I murmured, resigned to whatever this would bring.

A collective relaxation passed over the three of us, and with his choice now secure, Fletcher was calming down considerably. He glanced up at me, remembering what he'd said a few minutes ago.

"Sorry about earlier." _You didn't deserve that. _

I half rolled my eyes. "It's alright."

He looked to the woods again, wondering what was being decided...

We all wondered the same thing. As grateful as I was for the respite provided by their absence, and as much as I appreciated knowing just what Chelsea was here to do, they had the same reprieve. Who knew what they were coming up with out there.

We didn't have to speculate for long.

To tip off Carlisle and Fletcher, I nodded in the direction of the woods when I heard whispers of Silesian, growing, growing...

Carlisle's hand rested on my shoulder as he sidled up to me, and I gazed at him, concerned. His eyes had darkened a little, too soon for having fed so recently, and his mental tone was still weary...

_Forgive me, Edward. Just please, remember, I have reasons..._

Before I could ask what he meant, his hand slipped away along with his gaze, and with that came _Paradise Lost _again.

There was no chance to utter protest. Our visitors were already upon us.

Demetri was the first to appear, no longer amused, but distinctly smug. Next came Santiago, who had a studiously blank expression, and then Chelsea. My senses had sharpened as soon as I'd detected her mental voice, determined to ferret out any hint of her influence. There was none that I could discern, but I kept vigil, especially when I saw the relaxed, small smile on her lips. She met my gaze immediately, her smile widening as her eyebrow quirked. A layer of English-spoken thought addressed me once more.

_You look so somber, Edward. Surely nothing could be so troubling as all that._

I looked away, unable to trust myself to keep revulsion off my features.

"Our apologies, _Stregone_," Santiago spoke up as he leapt over the stairs to the porch.

"No apology is necessary. I understand why the discussion was called for."

Santiago nodded, his crimson eyes flitting towards Fletcher. "This is a delicate matter, and not welcome, under the circumstances."

"Again, I understand," Carlisle replied. "However, the Volturi impose no rules about feeding on animals. I don't anticipate they'd start now."

"Our _rule_ has never changed. There will always be one, and one only, and this situation may put Fletcher in danger of breaking it. By your own admission, Cullen, animals are much less than satisfying. With such unfamiliar, weak blood as his only sustenance, the changeling's thirst will be at critical levels during our crossing. He's likely to draw attention to himself and create problems."

Demetri rolled his eyes, leaning lazily against the porch rail, and the image of a large, sumptuous sailing vessel came to his mind. "It would all be so much simpler if we didn't have to put up with the limitations of _public_ transportation. None of this would be necessary if the triad hadn't denied my request to use the _Ondo Rosso_."

"Your concern is well-founded," Carlisle said, ignoring Demetri's comment, "but Fletcher has a reasonable compromise to offer."

Quizzical gazes fell on my twin, who readily stood, his mind resolute.

"I promise, I'll keep an honest gauge on my thirst after I hunt tonight. If it's not enough, I'll feed normally before we go to New York."

"That _is _reasonable," Chelsea replied. "However, we have a condition."

"Condition?" Fletcher repeated derisively. _More conditions? Christ, everyone's got conditions._

"Now, now," Chelsea cooed. "Our request, also, is very reasonable."

"What is it?"

"We can't let you hunt unsupervised, of course, but this hunt calls for more than supervision. You haven't tried this kind of prey before, and ought to have the guidance of one who knows what to expect from hunting _animals_," she continued, her nose wrinkling with disgust for a moment. "Therefore, we've decided to support this new urge of yours, as long as Demetri and Edward accompany you tonight. Santiago and I will keep Carlisle company while you're gone."

What? I'd thought she was leading up to suggesting that Carlisle take Fletcher out to hunt. But me?_  
_

"No!" I said before I could help it. "I can't do that."

"Why ever not?" Chelsea asked pleasantly, more challenging than curious. "_Stregone_ himself boasts of your discipline. You're just as able as he."

Like hell I was. I hadn't even hunted by myself yet, but I was supposed to run off and teach Fletcher, with _Demetri _tagging along like some deadly chaperon?

"I'm not ready for this," I protested. "Carlisle, please tell them."

I watched with a sinking feeling as his gaze lifted to mine far too slowly, and a few words struggled above the babble of Milton, as if bearing a great weight. _Perhaps it's better that you go with Demetri than stay here. _

I twitched; a stifled shake of my head, _no._ What was wrong with him?

_Please trust me, Edward. You're prepared for this. You do your part; I'll do mine._

"I trust you," he said aloud. "You'll be able to show Fletcher what to do."

It smarted to have him contradict me so flatly in front of them, even if it was technically a vote of confidence. He looked away, his worn-down thoughts obscured again, and that was it.

I had to do this.

Suddenly I felt set adrift, wondering when I would know what kind of sea I was on, let alone where I'd wash up.

* * *

"_So endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop—that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can..."_

Twilight was dwindling away now, a mere purplish glow filtering through birch and pine. A few brave crickets had taken up nearby and were chirping hesitantly.

We were all scattered around on the grass, listening as Carlisle finished reading the final passage of _Tom Sawyer. _

I had waited, tense with anticipation, for the moment he'd see my note in chapter 13...

_Demetri thinks Fletcher would remain calm if I accompany them on the ship. Please advise._

I knew the exact page, and watched him carefully when he finally turned it. His reading didn't slow or otherwise betray us as he read my few words, which were now entirely moot. I already knew that I wasn't going, no matter how badly my doppelganger might fare. When I thought about how close I'd come to deciding to pay a leisurely visit to Volterra on my own- being in the presence of the triad and Chelsea at the same time, where she could _really_ do her thing- I had to fight off a physical shudder. Still, I was intensely curious about what he'd say.

_I see, _Carlisle had first responded, without so much as a blip in the background of Milton. _Well, that's potentially true. Fletcher does seem to feel a certain camaraderie with you, the argument earlier notwithstanding. But it's a ruse. You know about Chelsea's gift now, so you must understand what that might mean if they wheedled you into going to Volterra._

My eyes flickered in a motion only he would recognize as confirmation.

_And, of course, you could snap, too, with all those humans, in such confined conditions._

Again, I let him see I understood.

_That said, Edward, please know that if you feel compelled to go, I wouldn't stand in your way. You may very well be ready to handle yourself on that ship, and you could probably withstand Chelsea's gift if you were determined to. Do you want to go?_

He watched for my answer without any pretense, his gaze fixed. I shook my head minutely. I wasn't going. I knew I wasn't hallucinating the little bit of relief I saw in his face as he smiled. I couldn't help but smile back, and then his eyes slipped down to the pages again, his thoughts swallowed up in disguise once more.

As he read on and the afternoon waned, I listened closely to the _tone_ of his thoughts, puzzling over why they sounded so weary. I couldn't understand what could be causing it.

I also couldn't tell if our Silesian-thinking guests were truly absorbed by the story or not, but they listened in silence and stillness, each staring off at some point in the woods. I monitored Chelsea most of all, but felt none of the draw that I'd felt before. Perhaps she _was_ focusing on Fletcher now.

His thoughts, the only ones truly open to me, didn't reflect that, though. Nothing was happening in his mind that spoke of feeling drawn or repelled to anyone. Fletcher thought of the woods. He thought back to his old coven. He wondered what Volterra was going to be like, starting to come to terms with its certainty as his future. He paid attention off and on to the story. He would frequently slip into thinking about the prey he was about to hunt, inevitably wondering how different it would be from the ambrosia of human blood... before veering sharply away, remembering my ability. I appreciated that.

"_...Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present._"

A brief silence followed before Chelsea spoke.

"Is that all?"

Carlisle smiled. "_'The End.'_"

"Oh, that's too bad," she replied. "It was enchanting."

Demetri sighed. "Eh, it had its moments, I suppose, but it lacks sophistication."

"It's for children," Carlisle said quietly.

"I'd forgotten it," Fletcher said, his thoughts drifting, trying to find old human memories that were permanently gone. "I think I read it when I was kid, but I don't remember much about any of that."

"Most human adults say the same thing about their childhood memories," Carlisle replied with a wan smile.

"I prefer more intense tales," Santiago said, "but I must admit that was entertaining..." He dwelt particularly over the passages about Injun Joe's corpse being found, the evidence of his desperate efforts to claw his way out of the cave... "even very clever in places," he added. "Perhaps American literature is defensible after all."

Demetri uttered a scornful, "Pft."

I was _not_ looking forward to spending the evening with him, but was steeling myself for it. Fletcher's control over his thirst couldn't last much longer. As soon as it was dark enough to cloak us, we would leave.

Still, though, maybe it was better than having to stay around here with Chelsea. I didn't like the idea of giving her a chance to...

Wait.

Carlisle's words came back, slamming into me:

_She isn't even devoting the majority of her energy to you._

I went still as stone as sickening dread kindled within, everything finally snapping into place in my mind. I fought not to look at Carlisle, unwilling to witness what I now fully understood, but my gaze rocked to him. Something inside sank at the sight of the burdened concentration on his features, the sluggish tone of his thoughts... and then my gaze wandered to Chelsea. She wasn't looking at anyone in particular, and seemed perfectly at ease, except for the humming stream of one of her thought patterns, and a tiny narrowing of her eyes.

She might not be able to use the full extent of her power to _create_ a bond to the Volturi here... but what was to stop her from _destroying_ a bond in place?

_That_ was the struggle taking such a severe toll on him. I'd been so selfishly absorbed by what she was doing to me than I didn't even think about what she might be doing to him, and I should have. It seemed so obvious now; she'd only casually toyed with my loyalties now and again. Of the two of us, he would be, by far, the tougher nut to crack. He was more attached to me than I to him, and it galled me that she was even aware of that, let alone exploiting it. She was tearing at Carlisle with everything she had, and probably had been since the moment she arrived.

It all made painful sense now: the first time I'd sensed the slowing of his thoughts, when we were all around the piano right after they got here, and then his seeming preoccupation, and the way his Milton had collapsed, almost in relief, when they'd gone earlier, and then started up again laboriously when they returned. His apology.

And now they'd turned Fletcher's request into a chance to get me away from Carlisle physically. It would probably be easier for her to break the bond if I wasn't actually in his presence. Why had he consented to this?

_Please trust me, Edward, _he'd entreated me._ You're prepared for this. You do your part; I'll do mine._

That was all I had to go on. I knew how to hunt, but what if something went wrong? And what was his part? To stay here and weather Chelsea's attempts to make him forget all that had been built in the last ten months? He was already sounding crippled. She might break him by the time we got back, and imagining what that might be like...

I stifled a whining growl of protest. Something fiercely protective had been welling up inside in the last few moments, and there was no way to kid myself about why. Maybe I was more attached to Carlisle than I'd thought. No matter what happened after tonight, tomorrow... I wanted to be here. I didn't want anything to change. Not yet. I held on to something else he'd said...

_If her gift was going to work on us effectively, it would have by now._

I fervently hoped he was right about that.

My focus shifted unwillingly as Fletcher approached. He paused beside me, not sitting, his thoughts anxious and centered on one thing.

"Can we go soon?"

_Yes, you should go. The sooner it's over with, the better. _

I looked at Carlisle, grateful for his voice, even if the beleaguered tone of it hurt to hear, and the advice itself was unwelcome. I didn't want to go, to leave him... with _her. _I spoke silently to him once again, my face plainly worried, glancing at Chelsea before resting my gaze meaningfully on him.

His leonine features smoothed into understanding, and then into a wan smile.

_It's alright, Edward. I'll be here when you get back._

I nodded minutely, resigned to the task at hand. He was right. The sooner it was over with, the better. I rose to face Fletcher, my expression stern.

"If you really want to do this, you need to listen to me. You think you've hunted, but you haven't," I said matter-of-factly. Before he could react, I continued. "There's no method to what you've done before. It's simple to wander nearby a human population and find an easy target, but that's far from what we do. We actually _hunt._" Fletcher's black gaze glinted fiercely in understanding, his instincts responding favorably to the word. "Animals may be no match for us, but they're more far attuned to their surroundings than humans, so you'll have to be more stealthy, and that's _after _you've scented prey you're interested in."

My sight shifted abruptly to the woods before I closed my eyes, taking a deep draught of evening air, ignoring the interest in my words that I could feel from the rest of the group. Cedar, birch, decaying leaves mired in soil, spruce, traces of woodsmoke, tangled webs of shed bird feathers, the pungent slime of slugs, squirrels, rabbits... there were a hundred odors to be detected, but nothing large enough nearby.

One benefit to his desire to try animals was that we wouldn't have to leave Carlisle's territory. There was bound to be decent game in the relatively close forests northwest of Grafton. We would, of course, take a route that steered clear of the town and surrounding farms by many miles, shifting to keep upwind of _that _scent. I would not be hunting for myself, either- that was crucial. Once completely given over to predatory instinct, I couldn't afford to get an accidental whiff of some stray human; the intoxicating scent would be irresistible. My body would follow without thought, the killing instinct in full control. No, I would be scouting only. Carlisle had been careful about that, when we hunted. He only let himself succumb fully to the predator within after actually locating his prey, locked inside an area free of any human presence. I would emulate that.

I opened my eyes when Demetri sauntered up to us, but it was my twin I looked at.

"Stay behind me, and _do not_ breathe until I say," I told him.

His chest obediently froze, and then I ran.

I didn't pay attention to Demetri's disguised thoughts, or Fletcher's eager ones. I listened only to a warm, comforting voice that got fainter and fainter with every step, and for the first time, I wanted to keep hearing _Paradise Lost_.

_**(to be continued...)**_

_**

* * *

**_

A/N: Sorry to break this chapter up into yet another part, but it's a monster. Thank you for reading, and for your patience.


	17. There is No God the Wicked Saith, Pt IV

Chapter 16 – There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt. IV

"_There is no God," the wicked saith,_

"_And truly, 'tis a blessing,_

_For what he might have done with us_

_It's only better guessing."_

_But almost every one,_

_When age, disease or sorrows strike him,_

_Inclines to think there is a God,_

_Or something very like Him._

- from _There is No God, the Wicked Saith_, by Arthur Hugh Clough

* * *

**Luck was** with us. The night was still, and our path around the town and farms of Grafton was devoid of campers, sportsmen or other stray humans; we were making it to the forest in remarkably short time. I ran at a pace the others could keep up with, and Fletcher was conscientious about staying behind me, but only just. Demetri, on the other hand, kept abreast, amusement sparking his features.

"_I'm_ allowed to breathe, am I not?" he asked, just after we leapt over a fallen, rotting spruce.

"It's up to you. Maybe you shouldn't, if you don't think you can control yourself if we come across a human scent."

He snorted. "You really are a cheeky little bastard. I have far more control than you do."

I smirked, picking up my pace just a little so he was behind me... but he was right. Even with his centuries of experience aside, Demetri lived with the alluring scent of humans all around him in Volterra; he probably even caught the scent of free-flowing blood often enough, and managed not to be in a perpetual feeding frenzy. Then again, he never had to think of that scent as perpetually forbidden.

His stride picked up; he ran by my side, and along with his stride, the Silesian hum of his thought patterns flowed into a rhythm. There was something very patient about them, and I wished I could hear the specifics. Still, though, the reason for his forced patience wasn't too hard to guess at.

"This is probably the last thing you want to be doing right now," I said.

He just kept stride for a few moments before speaking.

"Babysitting," he said with a frown. "Unfortunately, it's a frequent enough task."

"Not to mention lowering yourself to chasing after _animals_," I muttered.

"Eh, it's not so bad, you know?" he said with a shrug. I found it interesting that he retained an Italian accent while his companions didn't. "I was never even remotely interested in Cullen's little trips outside Volterra, but this may prove to be educational, at least." He chuckled, and I picked up an odd vision from his mind; a memory of he and Heidi haggling with some man in a piazza... "Aro once sent a pair of us to the market to acquire two spring lambs for Cullen, so he wouldn't have to go on an outside excursion. He graciously partook of them, but then said he'd prefer to hunt for himself in future."

I had to smile at that, but remained silent otherwise, letting the conversation die. I was too close to making a snide comment about Chelsea's gift, about what was happening... how much I knew about what this "babysitting" venture really meant. Besides, we were close now...

A few moments later I started us on leaps that led up the craggy ledges of Hatcher Pass. It wasn't very high, but a handy shortcut that provided a good point to survey the remote forest we'd be hunting in. At its crest, I stopped, as did my companions, and stared out at the starlit forest stretching below.

Carlisle and I had scouted out every cabin, house, shed, barn, outhouse and oft-used trail in the wildernesses we hunted in, just so we'd know which areas to stay away from. There were several cabins in the woods below, much like the one Carlisle and I inhabited, tucked into the southern region. They were usually occupied only on weekends, owned by city dwellers who came out to fish and hunt. Tonight they should be empty, but I wasn't taking any chances.

Mild gusts of wind broke along the rocks below, washing scents up to us and confirming that it was safe. Not just that... I detected a possibility. I motioned to Fletcher and he came to my side.

"You can breathe now."

Relieved, he filled his lungs, and I listened to his thoughts while they identified various scents. He wasn't picking up the interesting one, though.

"Do you smell that? To the west," I prompted.

His nose wrinkled. "What _is_ it?"

"A fox."

Fletcher considered the sharp odor for all of half a second before shaking his head. "There's got to be something better."

Demetri released a theatrical sigh. Disguised as his thoughts may have been, the meaning was clear. _This is such a waste of time._

Unfortunately, I agreed with him, but it wasn't right to give up yet. Carlisle and I sometimes hunted for days at a time, ending up far north into Canada, before finally giving into the need for blood, abandoning the thrill of chasing down the best scents... which was, after all, much more entertaining than the taste of the kill. Tonight's range of possibility, though, was extremely limited, and time was short... but there was still a sizable chunk of forest to explore. I was supposed to give Fletcher the best possible opportunity, and I would. It was unlikely that the fox would be the best thing we came across, and even if it was, we could find it again later.

I looked over my shoulder at Demetri; his expression was taut, eyes wide, practically begging me to end this charade.

"We'll try further north," I said with a smirk, and then jumped as far off the ledge as I could, knowing Fletcher was right behind.

I relished the air surrounding me, watching the land rise beneath... upon landing, I let my weight make full impact instead of absorbing it into new motion. The sharp, resounding crack of rock splitting rock shot through the night.

_Every warm-blooded creature for miles is probably on alert after that, _I exulted, grinning as Fletcher landed close-by, sending up sprays of pulverized stone and making plenty of noise of his own. I looked up at the ledge, wondering why Demetri hadn't followed suit.

He peeked out from above, wearing a sardonic expression. "I thought you were trying to be stealthy."

Shrugging, I looked at Fletcher to answer. "Just giving the game a little wake-up call. It's easier to detect them when their hackles are up."

And besides, it was fun, even if my shoes had burst into shreds on impact. Barefooted, I took off through a maze of rock that melted into forest with Fletcher on my heels, and decided to employ a little extra speed, just to annoy our "babysitter." Only a few moments later I heard heard the soft, graceful thump of Demetri's own landing as he trailed after us.

Egging on the Volturi guardsman's frustration was gratifying, but I knew better than to push it too far. I started to slow so he could catch up... and that's when I really noticed how easily Fletcher was matching my pace. I took it down another notch, letting him come up beside me, watching his stride and exhilarated expression.

"Are you always this fast?" I asked.

He looked askance at me, as if I was missing something. "Of course not."

Then he burst to the right, away into the forest, and I was momentarily glad Demetri hadn't caught up yet. Fletcher's sudden break may have been misinterpreted, but his thoughts were coming through as clear as a bell, addressing me...

_Watch this! _

What there was to watch? I couldn't see him, and that was saying something. Still, I listened... his fleet pace moved away and ahead, and then cut in the opposite drection. I heard a rush of air, and up ahead he flashed across my path, and then disappeared again. Understanding started to dawn on me, and my jaw clenched. It was only his thoughts I could hear for a moment, and then he jogged up, pacing obediently behind me again.

He'd literally run a circle around me.

_I've never been in a faster form!_ _This is fantastic!_

I stifled a growl. As if I could forget he'd copied my physical form right down to my scar, now it appeared my speed came with it, too. Maybe I should have expected that, but I hadn't, and it wasn't pleasing.

Then again, it could be _interesting_ to race someone with my own speed...

I slowed and feinted to the side, allowing him to come up beside me again, and we looked at each other, a gauntlet silently thrown before matching grins of anticipation snarled to life. I launched ahead, and he matched, trying to overtake me, but I was already going faster, faster, the whistle of air reaching higher pitches as I sliced through it, and he was on my heels, then at my side...

"_Basti!_"

The irritated bellow was just loud enough to be heard, but came with unquestionable authority. We both slowed, Fletcher tucking himself behind me again. Our third party quickly caught up, coming to my side with a glare.

_You forget yourself, _Demetri said to me alone, layered above Silesian. _You will _not _run with him out of my sight._

But in the next moment both of us halted and turned, watching Fletcher, who had stopped without warning, his face in the breeze. He had a noseful of something. I sniffed to discern what had caught his attention, and sure enough... even his appetite was similar to mine.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"A lynx."

His body didn't relax out of predatory stance_. Not bad. Not good, either, but not bad. _

"Want to try it?"

Shreds of unfulfilled doubt nagged at Fletcher, and I heard the little war in his brain that sounded so familiar.

_Damn it, it just doesn't smell right. Why am I putting myself through this? I could call it off; go out of Cullen's territory and feed properly... no, I have to try. It doesn't hurt anything to try. What's the worst that could happen? So it might not taste very good. It still smells better than that stinking fox. _

"Yeah, I'll try it." _Like you didn't hear me decide that anyways. _"So what do I do, just sneak up on it?"

"Depends," I answered.

"On what?"

"On what, indeed?" Demetri chimed in from behind us. "What could _possibly_ require strategy?"

I ignored him. "It depends on how much of a fight you want it to put up," I answered Fletcher. "It's up to you how soon to let it detect you. When lynx sense a threat at a distance, they'll find some nook, or go up a tree to stay hidden. If they're aware of that threat closing in on them, though, they'll run, and sometimes it's a decent chase. Short, but decent. Or you can ambush it, in which case it will turn and fight." I couldn't help the delight in my voice at the next part. "It's best when you surprise them when they're in the middle of hunting for themselves, stalking some prey."

"You could always just try calling it, too," Demetri said. "_'Here kitty, kitty, kitty.'_" He barely got the phrase out before dissolving into laughter. "A _fight_, you call it?" After a few moments of reveling in his own wit, however, he straightened up into a mockingly respectful posture when we didn't share his amusement. "_Va bene,_" he said, head bowing. "This is evidently very serious business. Carry on."

Fortunately, his outburst hadn't ruined Fletcher's appetite.

"Do you want it?" I asked.

He nodded, his inky gaze fixed on the direction of the scent.

"Then go get it."

At last, giving free reign to his scorching thirst, he took off with me as his shadow. Breathing freely, drinking in every scent, running so fast that he'd close in on the lynx in mere seconds, he was in single-minded pursuit. I detected the precise half-moment that he'd given over to the predator, because verbal thought stopped. There was only killer instinct, and the decisions he made were merely physical responses to that instinct. It took far more effort than I imagined to separate myself from it, to keep my role to that of a guide.

Demetri was right on our heels, and while he could crack all the jokes he liked and shroud his thoughts in Silesian, he couldn't hide the tone of his thoughts, or the visions they conjured up. His mind flashed through all the ways Fletcher might capture his prey, lingering especially on a chase with a fight at the end. It was almost as if he was curious. Remembering the lazy, decadent way the Volturi fed, I had to wonder how long it had been since their hunting instincts had been truly indulged. I'd once told Carlisle that their way of feeding sounded boring, and it still did.

As it turned out, Fletcher was too thirsty to really chase his quarry. He crossed the boundary of the creature's senses, but stayed silent and upwind, ready to make an ambush. But even a fight wasn't on the agenda, evidently, because as soon as he spotted the thing- perched on a low, scraggly tree limb overhanging a rabbit hole, probably waiting for breakfast to hop out in the morning- I witnessed what my fastest speed looked like as he shot forward with new vigor and then leapt for it.

The lynx didn't even have time to fully turn its head in the direction its attacker came from; its eyes had barely widened, ears flattening as its startled body tensed before Fletcher swept up the small animal in his grasp and clutched it fast, sinking his teeth in. It was nearly drained by the time Fletcher landed, the cat still in his arms.

I halted and Demetri came up beside me, wearing an expression of morbid fascination as Fletcher finished swallowing the last ounces of blood. When it ran out he went oddly lax, and the lynx's limp, shriveled corpse dropped from his arms with an insubstantial thud. My twin's gaze penetrated the forest as if more nourishment might magically appear. Words started forming in his mind again... hollow, agitated...

_Not enough..._

Damn it, I _knew_ this wasn't going to work. Thirst was still clawing desperately at him, and the lynx's blood had only stoked the blaze. _Still,_ I thought, _maybe if we renewed the hunt. Something bigger, like a deer. _

"We'll find more," I offered.

_More? _Still looking out at the woods, he blinked as though he'd just been assaulted by nonsense. _Why in the world would I want more of that?_

As if under a spell, Fletcher launched into a run, and just like that, I knew it was over with.

My jaw clenched. "Shit."

I wasn't the only one perturbed. Demetri's gaze turned poisonous, his Silesian disintegrating as he took off after Fletcher. _I knew he would try to escape!_

"No!" I bounded after Demetri and grabbed him. He spun to face me, livid, barely able to wait for my explanation. "He's not trying to get away from us," I plead urgently. "He's going to hunt. His only thought is to get out of Carlisle's territory as soon as possible, and then track the first human scent he comes across."

Demetri's eyebrow arched. "He's come to his senses in one respect, at least. Still, I won't leave him unguarded, regardless of his prey. You don't think he'll just return of his own free will, do you?"

I frowned, staring in the direction Fletcher had gone, trying not to feel like a failure. Was there something else I could have done? It wasn't as if I could've made the lynx taste any better. I'd tried to make the hunt as engaging as possible, to sate his instincts... and Fletcher's total lack of satisfaction nagged at me. I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to be him right now, seeking what was natural, what was _needed..._

Reeling back that line of thought, I settled uncomfortably with the knowledge that my attempt to introduce another vampire to fine dining in the forest was over with, and I couldn't go any further... not now. Not with what Fletcher was seeking. It was time to hand over the reins of this little expedition to Demetri.

"I'll go tell the others," I said to him. "Just make sure he's out of our territory before he feeds."

I'd turned and made it a few steps before he halted me with words.

"You're coming with me, newling."

My frame tensed... I should've known that leaving Demetri to his own devices wasn't going to be easy. I turned, my resolve firm.

"My part's done. I did what I set out to do, and it didn't work. I don't have to-"

"I will need your assistance if he tries to escape. He may get up to his old mischief."

"That's not my responsibility. I'm not a member of the Volturi."

"But we are friends, are we not? Do you not help your friends?"

My gaze narrowed. "I can't help you. Not with this."

He smiled, glancing down as he approached me, hands folded behind his back, and I fervently wished I understood Silesian, because what was in his eyes... it reminded me of that look he'd given me during the spat we'd had before I took Fletcher to change clothes... like he'd decided something in regards to me.

"I know how... _apprehensive _you are about this sort of feeding," he said. "I promise, _mi amico_, you will be in no danger of doing anything you don't want to. Simply stay nearby in case you're needed afterward, that's all."

I backed away from him. "I can't... get that close."

"You underestimate yourself."

"How would you know?" I growled. "You've never had to exercise the kind of restraint I do."

His smile fled. "You have no choice. I didn't want to have to remind you, but refusing to cooperate with the Volturi is a punishable crime."

I snorted. "Punishable? What kind of punishment would that be? You're going to cart me off to Volterra to face death if I don't go with you right now?"

I was well-informed enough about the Volturi and their laws to know that Demetri's threat didn't hold much water. I was the one and only fledgling of Carlisle Cullen, who was at least respected by the triad. Suffering pain of death, for refusing to be commandeered for a hunt for human blood? That would be a hard sell.

Demetri's expression darkened, and I knew his bluff had been effectively called.

"You should get going," I told him. "He's got a good head start."

"Exactly," Demetri replied with dead calm. "And only one of us is fast enough to catch him."

His mind broadcasted a very convincing scenario... Fletcher feeding, and then deciding to exploit the speed of my form... perhaps getting far enough away that tracking him down would take days or weeks or longer. But he'd die when he was inevitably caught... and being responsible for their loss of a talent like Fletcher's...

It wasn't unlikely. In fact, it was damn possible.

My glare crumpled, and Demetri knew he had me. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"I knew you would see reason."

* * *

It wasn't easy to stay at Demetri's side. He was running at his fastest pace, but I was itching to go faster. Fletcher's trail was easy enough to follow, his scent fresh, but we weren't going to catch up to him at this speed.

Demetri didn't seem worried about it, and his Silesian was firmly back in place.

"I'm so very glad you were here," he said jovially. "How fortunate that you were able to correct me, and say that he was only running to hunt, and not to escape."

"Do you always assume the worst?" I grumbled.

"We assume nothing, _Eduardo_. We act on the information available to us. Scrambling about and second-guessing is too costly. Of course, mistakes can be made." He glanced at me. "They are few, but we would prefer not to make any mistakes at all. That would be possible if you were part of the guard, you know."

I clenched my jaw. He was really pushing it. I was already nervous as hell about what I was doing, where I was going right now, and running out of patience with his superficial compassion.

"Aro almost never leaves Volterra," he continued, "so we are deprived of his insight into the minds of the accused when we are on assignment. But with the contribution of your gift, we would always be certain of guilt. There would be no mistakes. No one innocent would suffer. Perhaps, if you wished, we could even make certain that those we feed upon don't deserve the life we take from them. And, of course-"

"I'm not joining. And I'm not going to Volterra."

He was silent for a moment.

"So you've made your decision."

"Yes."

"What a pity."

I could practically _feel _the gears in his head turning, working to find another avenue of persuasion, and fresh anger seared within me. It wasn't that I didn't expect it; after the last twenty hours, I'd learned to expect manipulation. The only thing that made the anger worse right then was fear. Fear was new, and it was there because I felt like I was teetering on the edge of an unknown that, somehow, I already knew. My unnatural body knew it, from skin to bones... something I'd spent every moment of my new life trying to forget about...

But here I was, chasing it... and feeling like a cornered animal. The irony was not lost on me.

Death, either way. Fletcher's life... a human life. It was going to happen. But why, God, did I have to be here? Every footfall bringing me closer to what I feared and wanted most.

I fervently wished Carlisle was here. But even that thought was disturbing, because it was only a reminder of what might have been happening to him right at this moment, back at the cabin. What was Chelsea's gift capable of with fewer distractions? Would the physical distance make it easier to sever his connection to me?

And when I thought of it all together... me, out here with Demetri, who had used every opportunity to talk me into leaving, now somehow pushing me into tagging along on a hunt for human blood... Carlisle, withering under Chelsea's barrage...

This was no leisurely visit. Carlisle and I had known it wouldn't be, but this was far worse than I'd ever anticipated. We were under_ attack_. And what the hell could I do about it? Nothing! Shit!

I hissed as we hopped down to the bank of a creek. Demetri leapt over the water, but I didn't bother. I sped through it, still beating him to the other side. As our strides matched again, he spoke... and his smug tone... it was everything I could do not to attack.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked.

It made me glare, unmasked hate on my face, but he ran on, blithe in all his surety.

A few moments later, I found enough control to speak. "We're never going to catch up to him if we keep to this speed. I'm going ahead. I'll tell him to slow down until you catch up."

With that I sped off, ignoring his reaction and funneling all my rage and frustration into motion. I was oddly close to hyperventilating- not out of duress, but anxiety. The mental murmurs of Silesian quickly faded, and I found what I was hoping for- a stretch without any outside thoughts whatsoever. The rush of the forest at night overtook all, and I forced my eyes closed. I ran, sightless, sounds and the movement of air over the ground guiding me for several long moments before I opened my eyes again. Breathing in the heady perfume of fall, I looked up at the stars, the treetops seeming to dance in lines underneath them as I moved.

A moment of peace... and then the trees seemed to be passing by too fast... rows and rows of them were passing away too quickly, but I couldn't slow down without it being noticed... weakness would be detected...

I looked ahead, dodging and leaping over branch after another, my joints fluidly folding as my limbs absorbed rises and falls in the ground... I followed one particular scent... _my_ scent... knowing it would lead to Fletcher, and what was to come, and anxiety crawled back in.

What would Carlisle say? What would he advise?

_Stay back enough not the catch the scent of the blood. Don't look at it. Don't even be where you can see it. Try not to even hear the thoughts. _

_I can handle that,_ I reasoned frantically. _I can do this. I'm not at the mercy of the thirst. It can be defeated. Think of him. _Carlisle's face blazed in my mind, his voice... that last human night when he held me while I spit up blood..._ He breathes in the scent of fresh blood all the time. Hell, sometimes he's covered with the stuff. He may have excused himself during Volturi feedings, but Aro still found ways to tempt him, and it didn't work. I can do this. This is nothing compared to the temptations he's faced. I can do this._

_I've never scented or seen flowing blood, not since it was my ..._

_Doesn't matter. I can do this. I won't look at it. I'll stay away._

My diabolical inner speech was interrupted by the mental whispers of a vampire on the hunt, and a fresh reason to be disturbed.

One's mental voice sounds quite a bit like their speaking voice. So far, Fletcher's inner voice hadn't yet sounded like mine. But it did now, in a way. It slipped in and out, adjusting... settling.

_Run, run... feels so good to move so fast. How far now? This is a gigantic forest. It's been at least sixty miles now, and not even a break in the trees. Soon now. Soon I'll be free to feed. That's a good scent- wait... is that...?_

He glanced at me as I came up.

"Didn't expect to see _you_," he muttered, then focused ahead again. His gaze flared as he was consumed by the hunt... ruled by instincts driving him to quench the lust, the ache, the bone-trembling _need... _and yet part of his brain was devoted to hammering out the complexities of what my presence meant, and it was doing a crack job of it. His thoughts churned out a fanciful imagining of what Demetri might have said to me. It didn't match exactly, but it was damn close.

"The wop made you come along, didn't he?"

I glared at Fletcher.

"You need to slow down," I hissed. "He told you not to be out of his sight. Are you _trying_ to piss him off?"

Fletcher rolled his eyes and groaned. "I hate this. It sounds so good on the surface... going to Europe, seeing the sights, having meals brought in... but there's always a catch, isn't there? Someone's always going to be breathing down my neck, telling me what to do, what to think, who to affiliate with... forever... and if I don't go along with it, I'm dead. Sign. Me. Up." He snorted.

But Fletcher's bravado was tempered by practicality... he mindfully slowed down.

"He's not _that _far behind us," I warned. "Tone it down a little. You're lucky I was there, you know. He thought you were making a break for it. If I hadn't-"

He interrupted me with a sudden but quiet, "_Shh,_" gazing at me with those black eyes in the strangest way... like he was trying to soothe me.

His thoughts sped ahead, giving light to what he meant.

And I was stunned.

_I won't let anything happen to you, _he thought to me. _No matter what happens, you'll be alright. _

I wanted to ask him if he knew what 'alright' meant to me, but from his brain came the simultaneous answer as he imagined me returning to the cabin in morning light, meeting Carlisle face-to-face with eyes still the color of topaz.

I didn't understand how he could_ understand_ so much, and my "gift" never left me more doubtful. Was there some underlying motive I wasn't hearing? Fletcher's mental voice sounded true, but it was as if he knew what I needed to hear. Not what I expected, not what I wanted, but what I needed. I liked to think that I would detect it in his thoughts if he was deliberately manipulating me... but would I?

Panic ramped up again, worse than before, and it only got worse when Demetri's thoughts plodded to the mix. The alarming thing wasn't that he was agitated, but smooth and calm. Fletcher made his apologies when he caught up, begging that Demetri understand "how it is" when "one is thirsty." Demetri shrugged it off, apparently more interested in mining information from me about the terrain.

"What's the best way?" he asked.

Again, I was hit with a quandary that I should have seen coming.

I knew where we were. If we strayed just a few miles directly west, we'd hit the outlands of a region consisting of brittle rock, with very little in the way of human habitation. To the east and north were farmlands. East would be the most populous, but going that direction would take longer to get out of Carlisle's territory (though, I suppose it was my territory now, too, wasn't it?). Northwest was the best choice for their purposes. In that direction, just little more than fifty miles outside the perimeter of our territory, was the suburbs of Duluth... and its inhabitants. There were sure to be plenty of humans on the way to that city, though... more farmlands. And I was supposed to tell them. _Follow me, boys, I know the way! _

Even though I wouldn't drink human blood tonight (so help me, God, I wouldn't let that happen), I would still be complicit in the death to come.

I was dangerously close to hyperventilating again, my pace flitting between bursts of faster and slower.

_Damn, he's worse off than I thought, _Fletcher thought.

I toned it down instantly, pacing myself.

_Focus._

_Think._

_Just get it the hell over with_.

I couldn't say it aloud. Caving in, I shifted to the northwest, and they followed.

Forest slid away, and miles fell behind us in a great plain, our path occasionally skirting the periphery of small towns. I sometimes watched the stars again, imagining a great cobweb of an umbrella stretching overhead in front of them, sheltering the miles of our territory below... reaching to a horizon that shrank with every stride... closer to those who weren't protected.

One hundred fifty miles, disappearing too fast... until it was gone. Naked stars and land. Vulnerable.

They knew it. I knew it. They paced along, waiting for me to be forthcoming.

"Alright," I murmured.

Fletcher took the lead, his frame exploding with frenzied need as we ran, seeking, seeking...

All too soon, it was there. I was the first to smell them. Probably my newborn sensitivity, I thought, scurrying away from the truth. I'd been dreading this scent so much that I was attuned to it even more than Fletcher was. Dreading it... because I was looking forward to it. I didn't let on that I'd gotten wind of what we sought. The luxurious scent teased my senses, and I had only a moment to wonder when they'd pick up on it, too, before they did.

Fletcher froze, drawing us all to a standstill. His head tilted back, eyes closing as if he was drugged, and his jaw fell wide open... catching the _flavor_ of the scent, richer than anything imaginable... and all his thought disappeared.

I felt my eyes widen... frantically trying to remember what to do. _Keep it in. Stop._ I held my breath, committed not to inhale even one shallow taste of air until all was said and done.

I made one mistake. One, and it was all that was needed.

Their_ thoughts_.

Both sleeping and dreaming... one a female, it sounded like. Scattered, worried visions of a house molding away, the rot setting in so quickly that she couldn't do anything about it no matter how much she scrubbed, cleaned and dried. The other dreamer was much younger, male. His dreams were less formed... the pictures were something about a friend and a yardstick, and all the words were in German.

Just two miles away. That was farther out than I could usually hear isolated human thoughts, but not this night. Not with all my senses and instincts honed into a blade.

Two humans... and I knew Fletcher's sense of smell wasn't providing anything but a general scent. He didn't know there were two yet. Neither did Demetri... but the latter was looking at me, knowing... a lone English-spoken thought asking me...

_Can you hear the mortal's thoughts, I wonder?_

I averted my unnerved gaze from his, my mind hardly knowing where to settle, there were so many wars inside...

I wondered if Fletcher would take both. Demetri wasn't planning on feeding, as alluring as the scent was to him. He was well-fed and absolutely sure of his next meal. He wasn't interested as anything but a spectator... or was he? He'd seemingly shut down visual aspects of his thinking. The Silesian sped furiously, though.

My gaze was riveted on Fletcher, no need to hear his absent thoughts to be captivated... watching my own form coil, then run to home on its prey...

A warning thrummed within me, over and over. _I shouldn't be here._

But there I was, chasing after him with Demetri, propelled across the last of the prairie by morbid curiosity, and... whether I liked it or not... by my own need for satiation. _Not that I was going to indulge it. No_.

The three of us, following Fletcher's lead now, stopped one last time in a small patch of trees on the periphery of the farm he was about wreak havoc upon. He stood on its edge, surveying his starlit killing fields, soaking in the anticipation, the slow tick of a growl forming in his chest. My companions detected the two distinct heartbeats now; could smell their owners keenly enough to know their sex and age.

A German Shepherd, tethered to leash on a doghouse in the distance, barked incessantly in our direction.

It was the only animal on the place. For a farm, not much seemed to be happening. This time of year, there should have been evidence of crops in the process of harvesting, and the presence of seasonal workers, but that wasn't the case. This was a new farm. I didn't need to to smell it- I could see it. The fields had been hard-worked all summer and now into fall; rocks had been painstakingly mined out and piled to create a handsome wall edging a garden around the house. Compost was melting into fertile soil, preparing it for a spring planting. The dark house in the distance wasn't finished; what looked to be an addition jutted out in a mess of sheeting and lumber. But the canine, whose leash was long enough to let him to the front porch, paced back and forth, ready to defend it. One of the human heartbeats I heard... the female's... was tucked away inside a back room of the completed portion of the house. The whispers of the other dreaming human emanated from the loft of the barn, which was also new and unfinished.

Neither of them was awakened by the dog.

Those heartbeats thundered in my ears, drowning out the thoughts of those they belonged to, gushing with the elixir I was meant to have, beckoning... and that same part of me screamed that I was making a mistake. I wasn't far enough away_._

My gaze was riveted on Fletcher... no need to hear his absent thoughts to be captivated... watching my own form coil with a midnight gaze focusing on its prey.

The warning inside kept thrumming within, over and over.

_I shouldn't be here._

But I stayed, absolutely consumed with the need to watch my twin's next move.

_What is he going to do?_

_You know what he's going to do._

_Yes, but... what does it look like?_

_You don't need to know what it looks like. You can imagine._

I couldn't tell if Fletcher made a conscious choice about who he chose; he wasn't _thinking_.

Even I was stunned at the speed he took off at.

_Am I that fast? Holy God._

He seemed a shadow as he shot for the house, the only mental activity a ravenous burn sending him on, on, ghosting over earth that had been tilled with hopes and dreams and promises. He didn't leave footprints... and yet he did.

I felt myself split into two halves; my body was paralyzed, stunted to the point of pain as I witnessed him fly across those fields to the unfinished house. The woman. I wanted to be him so badly that my insides ached, and flamed rushed up from my gut, down through every limb to toes and fingertips, my control like fingernails digging into a precipice before I fell...

_Stay next to Demetri. He's not moving. Just stay next to him._

_Don't breathe. Whatever you do, don't breathe._

The other half of me, though, used Fletcher' consciousness to follow...

As soon as Fletcher had started moving, the dog's panicked noises ceased, realizing that what was coming was no ordinary predator. It scrambled under the porch with throaty whines, too afraid to try for the doghouse.

It wanted to live.

Fletcher entered the unlocked house, slowing by our standards.

Using stealth.

Relishing the scent and sound of flesh and blood.

Panicking, I backed out of his thoughts, trying instead to latch on to Demetri's, but they were all foreign, and there was nothing visual... and he was _watching_ me, staring as if in rapt fascination. I dove into his sight, desperate for anything but my own train of thought, and saw myself, face contorted as if in agony, body poised to spring.

"Franz?"_  
_

The softly spoken word partially rocked me out of Demetri's vision and into Fletcher's. I saw flashes of a colorful quilt with a gray-haired head on a pillow... a cozy bedroom. Old eyes fluttered open, confused, sleepy, but her thoughts when she saw me... no, _him... _his inhuman eyes burning with mindless hunger...

_Oh, God-! Who? Franz!_

An alarmed shriek bubbled in the woman's throat as Fletcher descended, and was cut off.

I reeled back from Fletcher's sight again, frantically trying to shift my thoughts before I could get even a hint of what he was experiencing, but I couldn't find myself in the melee. Demetri's mind was a cold wall, Fletcher's forbidden... the woman's bled into nothingness.

The other human's, though, was easy to latch onto. His heartbeat increased, his sight flashing into the real world as he woke wide-eyed to the dark, his weak human vision slowly adjusting to what little light it could detect. The loft ceiling came into dimly into view, a disquiet in his thoughts.

A name. His aunt.

_Tante Ingrid?_

He thought he'd heard something from the house, but wasn't sure. Instinct gnawed at him, propelling him to complete alertness as he laid still, listening, wondering whether to act on something that he probably just imagined.

At that moment, the dog got brave enough to let out a high-pitched whine.

The man in the loft, who could only be Franz, decisively threw off his blanket and rose, the swishing and thumping immediately garnering Demetri's attention. The Volturi guardsman's sight shifted from me to the barn, and he took off.

I watched him disappear into the structure, stuck to the spot I was on as if growing roots into it, realizing that I was the only vampire who wouldn't be feeding tonight. The mere thought made my insides scream in pain, fire reaching out to every nerve ending, begging to be soothed.

I shut my eyes and clenched my hands over my ears in a desperate attempt to shut it all out. When I realized my physical hearing wasn't the problem, my hands slid up to my head as if to block out the thoughts around me, my fingers clenching fistfuls of hair...

A tiny voice inside begged me to back away, to leave, but I couldn't, not when every ounce of willpower was devoted to merely _not _moving forward. I just kept whispering to myself inside...

_It will be over with soon, it will be over with soon..._

My chest burned to expand with breath, to take in the scent of what was happening around me, and I managed somehow to keep it still, though just on verge of quivering, always on the verge...

A startled shout came from the barn, jarring me out of my concentration, hurdling my mind back into the man's before I even had a chance to stop it.

He hadn't even registered what he was seeing, except to witness it and react with instinct, but he had no chance of comprehending it all. He'd just bent to retrieve his shirt when a flash caught the corner of his eye and he turned, seeing a pale man for a split second. And then his little world in that loft turned to confusion and terror and odd sensations he couldn't understand... something cold and hard and inexorably strong grasped him fast. His breath was gone, and pain shot through his torso and back... something... someone had him, and as unbelievable as it seemed, they were crashing through the floor of the loft to hay-strewn ground below, and then all was a blur of motion.

Screams hiccuped out of him as even more pain radiated through his legs... he felt snaps as the bones broke, and he didn't understand what was happening...

But I did.

Demetri swept across the field with the shirtless human male pinned fast to his side, and it looked so odd. The man must have been twice Demetri's size, but was being half-dragged like some plaything... his feet stumbling, catching, breaking as they were plowed into earth at speeds that didn't give the ground time to give before his bones did.

I heard every snap. Knew the bleeding inside.

Demetri's eyes were lit with excitement as he stopped before me with his prize.

"He's yours, newling," he said to me, wresting the man into a back-to-chest hold. The man's half-seeing eyes opened on me... they were blue. Blue eyes, widening to saucers filled with terror, the sight of me apparently no comfort. Fighting through pain, confusion, rage and fear, he strained those eyes far to the side, impossibly trying to see the house far behind, his aunt's face in his mind... terrified of what might be happening to her... unable to comprehend what we were...

_Unnatural._

He screamed the name that had been in his mind, the woman's face foremost.

"_Tante Ingrid!"_

Demetri clamped a hand over his screams, and the man froze, his eyes squeezing shut as unconscious tears slid down his cheeks. Fresh pain. Demetri clawed into the man's chest, drawing deep, fleshy gashes. He whispered so intimately into Franz's ear...

"You die well, my friend. You are brave."

Franz didn't understand the words...couldn't comprehend his injury... until he looked down to see what was causing the _wet_ sensation he felt against his skin. When he saw his own blood beginning to pour down his abdomen, his whole body sagged, but not from blood loss.

Sheer terror.

A wet stain darkened his soiled work pants as he urinated on himself, but Demetri jerked him almost comically upward, like Franz was at attention. His blue eyes rolled to the back of his head, his thoughts disintegrating into a miserable, myriad abstract of horror and memory.

"He's suffering, Edward," Demetri said quietly to me, a smile tugging at his lips. "You can end it now. Put him out of his misery. It is the most merciful thing."

My gaze shifted from the man to the vampire, hate burning as brightly as my lust. Just the sight of the blood was enough to drive me into a frenzy, not to mention the beating of the man's terrified heart, pumping that blood faster, thundering, rushing... it was only Demetri's smugness that had stopped me so far. The sheer deception, the assumption...

I drew a deep breath, snarling in hate, finally giving in to the need to attack the sonofabitch. It was only later that I realized what the triumph in Demetri's eyes meant in that moment, because _all_ thought was wiped out.

Blood.

Its rich, heady scent threaded through my nostrils and instantly flooded every centimeter of my body, shocking it into a knowledge of vitality that I never knew could exist. Nightlit farmland was bathed scarlet in my vision, centering in a pulse that resonated from a hot, beating heart within reach.

The blood cooling on that man's chest was a horrible waste. Every drop was precious, and it was _mine._ My jaw fell open in a hiss, venom pouring copiously in my mouth, and my blood-bathed sight narrowed onto the source of what I _needed _to be whole, and I lunged.

I didn't even feel being knocked aside. I was only aware of the heartbeat suddenly further away as my body plowed a deep, long furrow across tilled rows and foul dirt sprayed onto my tongue. I heard a loud thought, in my own voice... _"No, not you!" _But I paid it absolutely no attention. Overwhelming _rage _consumed me. Something had coveted what was mine, mine...

_Mine! That was mine!_

I whirled in a crouch, ready to attack, and hell's inferno filled me at what I saw. Fletcher had fucking hit me, smashed me clean off my feet, claiming _my_ kill for his own.

Demetri stood to the side, his face twisted in impotent anger at the sight of my doppelganger's form covering the man on the ground. I smelled the blood meant for me coursing from one body into another, the blood itself still alive, burning, the scent of venom already consuming it... until Fletcher detached his mouth from the dead man's chest with a quaking sigh.

His scarlet gaze crawled to me.

_That was close. _

_

* * *

_

(to be continued...)

* * *

A/N:

To this story's small band of faithful readers... your patience is astounding. My thanks can't be expressed in words. I apologize for falling so behind on review replies here at ff(dot) net. I'll be better about that from here on out.

I'm pleased to announce a couple of developments. First, someone out there has nominated _My Lost Youth_ in the Sparkleteers' Rare Gem awards, in the category of "Best WTF Moment." I can only imagine it's the moment Fletcher's gift is introduced...? So, whoever you are, dear reader, thank you for the nod. I'm tickled. Their nominations page is here:

http : / / thesparkleteerawards (dot) blogspot (dot) com /p / test . html

I was also notified that a new reader, ginginlee, recommended _My Lost Youth_ on the Twi-Fic Promotions blog, for which I am very grateful. Her wonderful recommendation can be read here:

http : / / twi-ficpromotions (dot) blogspot (dot) com / 2010 / 11 / my-lost-youth (dot) html ?zx = d4578431d1092ca1

And, readers... once again, thank you for reading. *love nibbles*


	18. There is No God, the Wicked Saith, pt V

Chapter 17 - There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt. V

* * *

The blood was gone... my chance was gone, and my body screamed in pain.

The burn inside was as white-hot as my fury with the vampires before me. One had manipulated me right and left, and the other had stolen what was _mine, _and I was bent on destroying both.

My posture wasn't lost on Fletcher, whose ruby eyes narrowed as he growled in warning, his body coiling over his drained prize, ready to spring at my first move.

Demetri, on the other hand, approached, making the mistake of thinking that all my ire was directed at Fletcher.

"Edward, there's no need for violence," he said soothingly. "The hunt doesn't have to end here. "

My gaze shifted to him as I snarled, _loathing_ everything about him from his manipulative ways to his overly coiffed hair. His eyes widened, realizing his miscalculation as I launched at him.

This time I was prepared when Fletcher tried to stop me. I screamed in rage, fighting him, throwing him off me before he grabbed me again; I would tear him apart... and then go find what I needed. But first I wanted Demetri.

_Don't do it! _"Don't!" Fletcher barked, grappling with me. _Shit, he's strong!_ _If he attacks the tracker, it's all over with!_

The struggle kept me off of Demetri just long enough for the words sink in, and recognize the anticipation that suddenly sparked in Demetri's gaze... it was like he was _goading_ me. Why would he want me to attack him?_ Think, think... why would he benefit...? Wait-_

He would ultimately survive, of course. He knew I wouldn't actually _kill _him... but the assault would be crime enough to hand power over my fate to the Volturi. Not even Carlisle would be able to get me out of that one.

_Carlisle._

The thought of him shocked me out of the rage for a moment, as I imagined what it would be like when he found out that I'd attacked the ones I was supposed to guide... finding out I lost control... that I gave in_. _

_Oh, God, what have I done? If Fletcher hadn't..._

I had to stop. Whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen, I had to stop.

I screamed, throwing off Fletcher's hold, but stayed where I was, my gaze black with fury and pain and the beginning of a feeling that was getting more and more familiar - shame. But the pain, oh Jesus...

The last growl in my chest died as I sank to my knees, staring at a broken pile of flesh that only moments ago had been a vessel flooded with succulent, living nectar that was supposed to have been mine. Franz's glassy blue eyes stared back, his jaw slackened as if, even in death, he was still quite shocked about the whole thing, and part of my mind went back to his terror... but all I could focus on was the _blood._

I'd been so close to tasting it; the rich perfume hung in my senses, and _I still_ wanted it. Even my veins were constricted into hot wires, scorching, aching...

I stopped breathing and my body sought the ground, face in the dirt, simply because it felt cool. I quaked, my fingers curling into the soil with an urge to burrow in, as if the earth itself could be a refuge. It didn't help, of course, and I knew nothing would. Battling this attack of thirst wasn't about fighting an instinct; it was about enduring horrible pain.

I barely registered Demetri drawing close, standing over me with a puzzled Fletcher.

"What's wrong with him?"

"If you'd ever been denied blood that was just under your nose, you wouldn't need to ask," came Demetri's indifferent reply. "The thirst becomes much worse. And for him, I can only imagine how excruciating it is, since he's never once been fed properly." His tone changed to one of irritation. "He wouldn't be in this state if you hadn't been so selfish. When the newling stops having his fit, we can press on and get him taken care of."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I hissed into the dirt.

Demetri crouched over me. "You don't have to put yourself through this. The pain can end, and instead become the most supreme gratification known-"

"Just get the hell away from me! Both of you!"

I sensed Demetri wasn't going to give up, but then-

"Where are you going?" he demanded as Fletcher's steps started moving away.

_To do him a favor, _came the unspoken answer. "Relax. I'm just going to the barn."

"If I hear even you take even one step beyond that wretched structure-"

"Will you lay off? I'm not going to run away."

I didn't want to hear them. I let their thoughts roll behind the wall of excruciating pain, and was barely aware of Demetri standing above me until he muttered.

"Very well. If you would rather be in pain, so be it."

I heard him move then, rather quickly... picking up the man's corpse and heading for the house.

A few moments after he went away, the burn became less blistering but started to ache, as if my body was finally accepting that it wouldn't be nourished with human blood tonight. As the tremors abated, I let myself breathe again, turning my face and resting my cheek on the earth. As fresh scents flooded in, now largely devoid of blood, the burn seemed to thin out, spreading more evenly, as if running out of fuel. Perhaps this wasn't going to last for too long, after all.

Now more aware of my surroundings, I realized how pathetic I must have looked, lying there in the dirt.

I heard a thump in the distance, and opened my eyes to see Demetri going into the house, having just dumped Franz's body on the porch. The dog, still cowering underneath, scuttled to where its former master's body lay above. It started sniffing and whining at the wooden slats.

Next came the smash of a kerosene lamp inside the house, and that's when I realized that Demetri was setting a scene for those who would next see this place. To their eyes, it would look like an elderly woman had an accident with a lamp in the bedroom... the young man woke in the barn and saw the house on fire, had tried to rescue his aunt but was caught in the inferno, crushed by wreckage.

Carlisle and I did similar things after we fed. It's what all responsible vampires do after a meal. We cover our tracks.

Summoning all wherewithal, I resolved to ignore the pain as best I could, to get up and get the night over with. I couldn't let it get any worse. Shifting to my knees, I surveyed the ground in my vicinity. Neither Demetri nor Fletcher had left any footprints, but there were definitely signs of violence in the long furrow made when Fletcher shoved me away, not to mention where he'd taken Franz. It took only a few moments of shoving some dirt around to make the ground look merely plowed and worked again. While I did so, I was watching Demetri's silhouette, now by the doghouse. He untied the leash and then darted to the porch and crawled underneath. The dog snapped viciously at him, at the same time scrambling backwards to get away but Demetri used the leash to pull it back under the porch. For a moment I was utterly confused. I thought he would either kill it or free it, but he merely tugged enough to keep the animal well under the house, and then tied its leash to a pipe running into the ground. The dog continued to trying to get free, it's yelps choked off by its collar every time it yanked.

Demetri paid the frantic shepherd no attention as he got out from under the porch. He just picked up Franz's body and went inside the house again.

I'd also started paying attention to strange noises coming from the barn; at first there was a heavy thump, then scratching and grunts, and odd, deliberate humming. A voice changing. A body of granite cracking and re-shaping. I'd gleaned from his thoughts what he planned to do, but now that he was actually doing it, I felt real relief. Grateful, I stayed out his mind's eye, and tried not to pay attention to his thoughts.

Apparently realizing what Fletcher was up to, Demetri sped out of the house, muttering in Italian, and leapt up to the loft through the open hatch.

Evidently what he saw didn't please him. "_Accidenti a lui_! _Ragazzo!_" he cursed. "At least you remembered to take off you clothes first this time. I don't suppose you can stop at this point?"

A hiss was the only reply he got.

Demetri was still cursing under his breath, but moved about the loft, picking up bits of splintered lumber. His movement paused when there was a final series of low snaps, and Fletcher's breathing calmed. There was a moment of silence before Demetri spoke again.

"We didn't say you were allowed yet to take a new form."

"You didn't say I wasn't, either," a male voice replied. It was familiar, though I'd only heard it briefly before... while it was human and screaming. "What else did you think I was coming in here for? I told you, I prefer to have some privacy when I do this."

"I wrongfully supposed that you had some shred of civility, and were going to see to your share of the tidying. I should have known better." Demetri snorted. "No matter; those slovenly habits you learned from the Creole won't last in Volterra. Consider this your first lesson - when abroad on assignment, it's considered bad form to linger where one was just fed, but we must leave things in order. So, tonight, I'll finish the clean-up while you find something to wear. In the meantime, _do not_ indulge in your talent again until you're told to. There will be unfavorable consequences."

With that, Demetri hopped down to the ground floor of the barn to continue his task of making the place appear as though nothing violent had happened there. Fletcher's thoughts, meanwhile, revealed that he was reluctantly doing as he was told, sorting through a small chest full of clothing.

The inferno in my otherwise hollow stomach was calming, and with the pain at manageable levels, shame and bitterness crept in even further. The idea of going back, of Carlisle finding out that I'd so easily given in... there was no way I could keep it from him; I was sure of that. I could just imagine how gleefully Demetri would inform Carlisle that his protege had completely lost control at the first whiff of blood.

I didn't want to think about it.

Instead, I stood and focused on the barn, morbidly fascinated by what I knew I was about to see. And it was, indeed, a strange sight when Franz dropped from the loft hatch to the ground, as graceful as only one of our kind can be.

As disturbing as it was to see my formerly-intended victim pacing towards me with eyes of liquid fire and pale, quartz skin, I was glad that my twin was a thing of the past. This massive new version of Fletcher was blond and brawny, clad in a poor but clean suit, and it wasn't just his body that had altered; his thoughts were incredibly sharp and clear, his gait light as he approached; the fresh blood in his system showed in every way.

He stopped before me and held out a neatly folded bundle of clothing with the blue tie draped atop it.

"Better?" he asked. I nodded wordlessly, taking my clothes, while he looked on with a smirk. "Looks like you're the one who needs a fresh suit this time."

I _was _filthy. Recalling the mouthful of dirt I'd ended up with just a short while before, it wasn't anger that sparked again, but a humiliated gratitude.

"Thanks."

"Um, I left the jacket in the barn. I didn't think you'd want it back. It had-"

"I understand," I interrupted. I recalled far too well my blood-frenzied sight narrowing on my twin as he drank from his writhing prey, the jacket he wore hanging unbuttoned, its edges darkening with blood that had pooled on Franz's abdomen.

It was the only piece of clothing that had been touched, though. I took a tentative sniff of the clothes in my hands, relieved that Fletcher was a clean killer. There wasn't much human scent on them, and no blood.

"I guess I should thank you for... for stopping me."

"No need. It was my pleasure." He broke into an elated grin, relishing the sensation of the blood coursing through his body. An echo of enraged envy stabbed at me before I tamped it back. "Besides," he continued, but in a soft tone, too quiet for our chaperon to hear, "I enjoyed ruining the tracker's little plan. I'd hate to see these bastards get a hold of you the way they've got me." Fletcher's thoughts switched tracks again, this time to yet another motive, although this one was an afterthought... his admiration for Carlisle. It was still there, but with a more distant perspective... one that matched up more with the Volturi's regard of Carlisle than with mine. _The way he lives is a noble concept, I guess. I'll never know how the two of you can stomach that sorry excuse for blood, but... _"can't say I've never tried it, at least."

"Well, I still owe you one."

"Nah," he replied. "Besides, I don't know how long it'll be before I can call in any favors. Looks like I'm going to be stuck in Italy for a while."

I didn't know what to say to that. We both fell quiet, and I started changing into the cleaner clothes while Demetri finished his self-appointed clean-up detail. Fletcher watched closely, his gaze following our chaperon when he came out of the barn, bearing an armload of splintered wood - wreckage created when he'd ripped Franz from the loft. I could smell that he'd also picked up the bloodied suit jacket that Fletcher had discarded.

I almost held my breath, bracing for the pain to come back, but discovered there was no need. The scent of cold, dead human blood wasn't alluring. It was just sort of _interesting. _

As Demetri slipped into the house one last time, Fletcher spoke.

"I must admit, he's very thorough."

I finished neatening the blue tie around my neck in silence, unable to agree or disagree since Carlisle and I never had to set fires or stage anything elaborate. Our way of hunting didn't call for much-

Suddenly that train of thought came to a screeching halt, and I stared at Fletcher in shock. His broad features were tense with calculation, his gaze narrowed on the house as an idea formed in his mind.

At that moment Demetri lit a match inside the back bedroom, and even from across the fields I could smell its minuscule burst of sulfur.

_I shouldn't have stopped you from tearing him apart. _Fletcher's crimson gaze shifted to me in excitement. _You hate him as much as I do, I know it. This is how you can help me. Right here, right now. We take advantage of the fire. I can't take him by myself, but he won't be able to fight off both of us. Not with your speed, your strength, and you'll know every move he's going to make..._

From inside the house came the _fwump _of flame... a gaunt flicker in the shadows, quickly growing bright. The dog started making noise again, yelping and barking, yanking against the leash, so desperate to get out from under the porch that it was hurting itself.

Demetri strolled out of the house just after flames took hold of the bedroom, descending the porch steps at a casual pace, at which point he paused, turning around to monitor the progress of the quick-moving blaze.

_... then we simply go back, tell the others that I tried to escape, that I had to be killed... and then I slip away from them on the way to New York.. They won't be watching me when they think I'm him. And without him, how are they going to track me down? _"He's not hard to imitate at all," Fletcher murmured, still quiet enough to be confidential. "I can get away with it for long enough. Help me, _amico mio._"

My eyes widened at the perfect imitation of Demetri's voice, and even his smirk, despite it being on another face.

The scenario he pictured was both far-flung and startlingly possible. If we killed Demetri, then Fletcher could just take his place. We'd go back to the cabin, saying Fletcher tried to escape and had to be disposed of. Meanwhile, Demetri's ashes would be here in this place, commingling with that of Ingrid and Franz's... part of the very scene he was setting himself. And Fletcher probably _could _fool them for long enough. Good God, it would _work._

But what in the world made him think I'd go along with it? He was right that I hated Demetri, even hated him enough to relish the prospect of being rid of him, but not like this. And there was no way in hell I would do that to Carlisle. I'd have to lie to him, put him in danger... hell, I'd be murdering someone he considered a friend. Well, a sort of friend. Besides, Fletcher's plan would only work for _his_ purposes, and its success would be short-lived. I had to remind myself of where Fletcher came from, the tactics of his old coven...

"Don't you dare," I muttered, matching Fletcher's barely audible tone. "It'll get me killed when they realize what's happened. They'll know when you made the switch, that I helped you."

"Not necessarily." _You could say that after I bolted, Demetri took off after me without you, and then caught and killed me by himself, and that you had no idea it was really me when he returned._

"Somehow I don't think they're going to believe that I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between your thoughts and Demetri's," I said tersely.

Besides, I realized that all it would take was one touch of Aro's hand to glean every detail of this night from my memory. There weren't many circumstances to make the triad insist on a personal meeting, but the death of one of the Volturi's elite guards would probably be one of them. And what would happen to Carlisle? Would he put himself in the line of fire trying to defend me? What a shitstorm. With plans like Fletcher's, it was no wonder the southern wars had gone on for so long and gotten so ugly.

Thank God, Fletcher was earnestly tossing around what I'd said.

_I suppose you're right, _he concluded. _It was just a thought._

"Keep it that way. And I _will_ do you a favor; I won't tell them what you were thinking, despite my obligations. But you've got to promise me that you won't make other escape attempts."

He glowered.

"Stop resisting it so much," I muttered. "You'd be treated well there, if you'd just calm the hell down about it."

"I have a hard time believing that."

"No kidding."

We went quiet again as Demetri approached, now apparently satisfied that the fire was going to raze the house and its grisly contents to the ground. Fletcher's thoughts sped over his limited options before finally accepting the inevitable all over again.

_Alright. I'll go peacefully. _

I stifled a sigh of relief, watching Demetri closely, listening to the patterns of Silesian for any indication that he'd heard us. Obviously, he hadn't. As always, his attitude was blithe and arrogant, but it didn't bother me this time. It was too easy to imagine just how quickly that smirk would be wiped from his face if he knew what kind of danger he'd just been in. And really, when I thought about it, I wondered that it never occurred to him how dangerous it was to be alone with two vampires who loathed him.

"Good to see you feeling better," he said to me. When I didn't answer, his smile gentled, and he let a few thoughts be heard. _Oh, come now. You won't stay upset with me for too long, I hope. It's all in good sport. You know I had to try. _

"_'A token effort?'_" I muttered, repeating his words from earlier by the river.

_"Appunto," _he conceded with a nod, and then frowned at Fletcher. "Is that the best you could do? We _are_ sailing first class, you know."

"It was this or some rags that reeked of manure and engine oil. I could always go put some of those on, instead."

"No, I daresay you're Santiago's size now. Something of his will do until we can acquire more in New York." Demetri looked to me again. "Shall we go?"

I nodded once, my gaze sliding past him one last time to the house, which was almost fully engulfed in flames. Under the burning porch the shepherd squealed in pain, not even really sounding like a dog anymore, the acrid scent of its burning hair and flesh beginning to mix with that of its owners'.

I turned away, and though I couldn't physically see it, I was looking ahead to the prairie beyond the woods, to the forest beyond the prairie, and the other miles that were separating me from home. _Home_.

As we ghosted away from the fields, the lower floor of the house collapsed, and the dog's crying was silenced.

The three of us made our way back quietly; even Demetri seemed subdued. Each of us was keeping our own counsel about the events of the night, each of us knowing we'd failed in some respect.

Fletcher had fed, but was returning without having found an avenue of escape.

Demetri was returning without having changed my diet, and I was now certain that his actions hadn't been spontaneous. His covenmates were probably expecting to very specific changes in me.

Funny thing was, now that the attempt was over with, it was easy to see how simple their strategy was. It was ancient: divide and conquer. Getting me away from Carlisle was about more than isolating him with Chelsea. What more powerful tool could there be to lure me into their fold than human blood?

That's probably why they kept Fletcher thirsty, so he'd have to hunt, providing them with an opportunity to finesse a reason for me to go along. It made me wonder what excuses they'd had ready to send me along before Fletcher had thrown a wrench into the works by insisting on trying animal blood. Maybe the same ones Demetri used later - I was fast enough to keep an eye on him, I knew the area, blah, blah, blah. What really made me wonder, though, was what they would have done if they hadn't acquired Fletcher at all, and it had just been the three of them.

In the end, Fletcher was the thing that spoiled it for them, and as much as I wanted to deny it, if it hadn't been for him, if I'd consumed what my whole being ached for...I might be feeling very favorably about going to Volterra. I felt foolish over how I'd boasted about our way of hunting. No thrill of the chase could compare to the ecstasy of taking in _real _blood. The scent of it alone was enough to show me that. The promise that scent held would haunt me forever.

As I ran, I repeatedly examined my memory of that event, trying to find something, _anything _I'd felt in those moments that resembled pity or sympathy for that man, but... I couldn't find it. All I'd seen and smelled was his blood, all I'd heard was a heartbeat.

It was painfully clear that I'd failed, too... on all counts.

At least I no longer had a twin. Only one thing made me miss Fletcher being in my form, and that's when his new body proved to be downright sluggish. Even Demetri could've run circles around him. Still, even though we stayed at a pace Fletcher could keep up with, the journey back was quicker. I was relieved the night was over with, the glimmerings of a soon-to-be sunrise ahead of us... every step farther from that farm made what happened there seem more distant, though I knew I'd never escape what I did.

Some eleven miles before we passed Grafton, I raced ahead of the other two, knowing that my presence wasn't needed any longer to keep Fletcher in line. I wanted a solid stretch of time to have some peace, devoid of outside thoughts.

Just after crossing the river, my pace streamed into its fastest as I entered the last stretch of woods. Despite what he'd find out about my behavior, I wanted to see Carlisle, needed to know how he was, to know-

if I was imagining things, or if I'd just heard the _crack_ of a bat hitting a baseball.

I stopped to look up, and sure enough, high above the trees in the deep blue morning sky, was a baseball whizzing along like fifty Babe Ruths had just smacked it. It was on its downward arc - if I backtracked a matter of just a eighty yards, I could catch it. I snapped back into position, waiting for it to come to me, while my gaze traced the ball's trajectory to where it had come from- the cabin, which was still just a little too far away for me to pick up on anyone's thoughts yet.

The sight of that ball was both bizarre and comforting, and as I caught it, I chuckled in disbelief. The feared Volturi... playing baseball? Now _that_ I had to see. I was just about to throw the ball back in the direction it came from, wondering if I could beat it to the cabin... and then I heard him.

_Drat, I wasn't even close this time... oh, well... it's got to be up ahead here just a little ways... I'd wager that Edward could have caught it if he was here. _

A startled nest of finches burst up into the sky as he approached... and then he came into view. His trousers and shirtsleeves were rolled up, vest unbuttoned, and his hair disheveled... a welcome sight to sore eyes.

He saw me and froze, his thoughts stopping cold, stuck on a single disquieting question.

He wasn't sure if it was me. I was in the same clothes Fletcher had been wearing when we left, and he reminded himself that eye color was no longer reliable identifier, either. For all he knew, Fletcher had been gorging himself on wildlife all night, and as starved as he'd been, the meal might have been enough to turn his eyes same color as ours.

He took a breath, filtering out all scents but mine.

_Edward? Is it... is it you?_

The thought sounded so hopeful, and his mental voice... it was clear and quick and warm and open. And I knew Chelsea had failed.

The relief was so much, I didn't care that he wasn't sure if it was me. I closed the distance between us, walking up to to him with a grin I couldn't keep off my face.

"Maybe it's me, maybe it's not," I said, holding up the ball. "But you're right. I _could_ have caught this."

_Edward. _The word was drenched in relief.

His smile matched mine, and we stood in silence, too busy soaking up the glad sight of one another to ask all our questions about what had happened during the night.

"So who hit this?" I finally broke the silence.

"That would be Santiago. Chelsea's still working on her swing."

"You're really teaching the _Volturi_ baseball?"

"Why not?"

I shrugged. "Just wouldn't have occurred to me, that's all."

He gave a shrug of his own. "Well, Chelsea seemed a little bored, so..."

So that's what they'd been doing to while away the night. So strangely innocuous. It made what I'd been doing that much worse... and it was then that all the anxiety about what I'd done really hit me full force. I'd been staving off the dread of telling him, trying not to think about it... I couldn't put it off any longer though, could I? Not if I wanted him to hear it from me instead of one of the others.

"What is it?" he asked, noticing my troubled expression. _Where are the others? His clothes... did something happen to Fletcher?_

I shook my head, my gaze falling to the ball in my hand. "They're not too far behind. Fletcher... he kept his promise to you. He tried a lynx, but it didn't do any good. He went hunting for more."

"I'm not surprised." _You were there when he fed?_

"Carlisle-"

_Whatever happened, you can tell me._

"I tried... I almost did it. Demetri brought one of them to me. There was so much blood and I smelled it, and..." my words died, drowning in shame.

He grasped my shoulder. _Look at me, Edward._

I couldn't. Not while I told him this. I couldn't rip my eyes away from the stupid ball.

"I gave in. My control just collapsed. If Fletcher hadn't shoved me away, I would have done it. I _tried _to do it. I'm so sorry."

My gaze darted up to his then, looking for condemnation or reproach, but finding none.

"Don't berate yourself. None of our kind would have been able to resist."

"Except you," I said miserably.

"I wish I could be sure of that. I can only imagine... Edward, they put you in as vulnerable of a position as they could. No matter how dedicated to being in control, to not taking a human life... if I'd been a newborn, manipulated, antagonized into a raw state, my hunting instincts on edge, simultaneously presented with the sight and scent of flowing human blood-"

"You would've been able to resist. You've always been able to."

His hand fell away from my shoulder. "It doesn't matter. You shouldn't compare your experiences to mine; the circumstances are too different. Last night- you didn't put yourself in that situation voluntarily."

Why did he have to be so damn forgiving? Could I do no wrong in his eyes? I was on the verge of another argument when a switch in his thoughts cut me off.

_Fletcher stopped you? A blood fight?_

"He wanted the blood for himself, yes, but he had other reasons. He wanted to thwart Demetri."

_Interesting._

"But there's more," I said. At the same time, I bent my hearing to search for those who were following. By my estimation of Fletcher's pace, we should've still had a few minutes before they would catch up. There was nothing to hear... no steps, no thoughts... just the sounds of the forest waking around us. "Carlisle, Fletcher is... I don't think the Volturi know what they have. After he fed, his mind started going a million miles a minute, and he came up with this escape plan... I don't know, it was brilliant and loony at the same time. He tried talking me into helping him kill Demetri."

True shock slackened Carlisle's features. _Please tell me Demetri is unaware of that._

"Don't worry, I'm sure he doesn't know. And I talked Fletcher out of it. He's promised to go with them quietly, but I don't know how long that's going to hold. What should we do?"

"There's nothing we _can_ do," he replied. _Let's just hope that Chelsea can keep him steady from here on out._

"Speaking of Chelsea, you seem... better."

He smiled ruefully. "Yes, well, around three this morning, she finally gave up on me. Besides, as I said before, if her gift was going to work on us, it already would have."

"But I could hear you suffering."

He was instantly confused. "Suffering?"

"What I could hear in your mind sounded so slow, like you were having to fight against something. It wasn't her?"

"Not the way you think. Don't misunderstand - her abilities are formidable, but there are some bonds she just can't break, and mine to you is one of those. What you heard was the toll it took on me to endure the situation without becoming unpleasant."

"Unpleasant?"

A smile twitched at a corner of his mouth. _I may have wanted to throw Chelsea through a wall or two. Aro, too, actually, but of course, he's not here._

My mouth fell open in incredulity. I'd never seen Carlisle even close to losing his temper.

"That's _all_? You were angry? Why would you hide that from me?"

"I'm sorry, but you just don't have enough control over your emotions yet." _You were upset enough about everything, and if you'd known how on edge I was, it would have set you off. Lashing out would have been disastrous._ "It was difficult enough just to keep myself in check."

"You were that mad?"

"Not at first. I knew what she was here to do, but I thought she'd quit after it was apparent that her talent wasn't going to work. I was wrong, however. She's a very stubborn creature."

"So what made her stop last night?"

"I told her to."

I snorted. "As simple as that. You just asked her to stop, and she did?"

"No, I didn't _ask_," he replied, remembering the conversation.

_At first glance, they would seem like any trio of old friends sitting out on a porch, catching up with each other. Never mind that they almost never moved, and were lightly clothed and barefoot, despite the chill of a northern fall night. Never mind that there wasn't a single light burning, inside or out of the cabin, and that the topic they discussed was armies of newborn vampires ravaging each other. _

_Carlisle hadn't participated much in the last little while, devoting most of his concentration to reining in his temper, which he'd been on the verge of losing for hours..._

_Having never experienced Chelsea's gift before that day, Carlisle hadn't been entirely sure of what to expect. He didn't have to wait long to find out. Soon after showing them into the cabin, as they stood watching me play Chopin... he felt it begin._

_His feelings towards me... they started to coalesce, melding... forming into something visceral, almost physical, like a tether, but he wasn't sure if that was just own defensive reaction to her presence, making him hyper-aware of how he felt about me. But then... he felt it wasn't coming from within him. The way it was all coming together seemed too organized... like a presence had invaded his consciousness and sought all the elements of what I might mean to him, drawing them together into a single entity... and when he became aware of a warm, hazy glow enveloping that bond, he knew that Chelsea had begun to try dissolving it, like acid eating through rope._

_His first reaction was to be on guard, monitoring that bond like it was the most precious thing in the world, wondering what he might do to fight it, but as the first hour of their visit passed, he came to the realization that there was nothing to fear. He'd known there was one kind of bond she couldn't break, and had hoped that his to me was of that ilk... and it was. Her efforts were ineffective. Nothing was dissolving. Nothing was lessening. If anything, the bond was strengthening, becoming more steely with every renewed assault on it. He didn't even have to pay attention to it._

_But the more he thought about what they were trying... when he saw how thirsty Fletcher was, knowing he would have to hunt... how visibly distressed I was about so many things, especially Fletcher's copying me... the way I seemed drawn to Chelsea... he knew she wasn't allowed to forge a bond of loyalty between me and anyone else but the triad, but perhaps she was trying to form a lesser bond, which was confirmed after Fletcher spoke of feeling her draw... the more he saw me upset, the more his anger grated, the harder it was to rein in... and now, though they conversed as if nothing was wrong, he was consumed by imagining what I might be experiencing out there if Fletcher hunted for human blood... and still, _still, _even though it was fruitless, Chelsea was invading his consciousness, trying to strip away something so fundamentally important to him-_

_"...the most laborious assignment by far," Santiago was saying. "We've been thorough, but I wouldn't be surprised if- "_

_" Pardon me for interrupting, " Carlisle suddenly said._

_Santiago stopped, slightly taken aback, while Carlisle turned his heated gaze on Chelsea, who looked at him inquisitively._

_" We both know that your efforts are in vain, and I've run out of patience. If you want this visit to continue peaceably, I suggest you stop attacking me."_

_She didn't bat an eyelash, and a heavy silence ensued._

_" It _is _enough," Santiago finally said lowly to her. " It cannot come to that." _

_Her gaze narrowed, and Carlisle felt the glow increase tenfold for a brief moment... and then fade._

_" Very well," she murmured._

_The insidious warmth dissipated, the visceral nature of his bond to me spreading out as if longer confined, and the only glow left behind was the knowledge that all was well, and that he was untouched. _

_" Thank you, Chelsea. That's much better."_

_She didn't reply, and another loaded silence ensued before Santiago spoke, albeit cautiously._

_" Our apologies, Stregone. I hope you understand, she was only trying to help."_

_" Oh, I have no doubt Aro thought he was doing me a kindness," Carlisle responded dryly. _

_" Isn't it, though? A kindness?" Chelsea asked. " It pains me that you would call my efforts to help you an 'attack.'"_

_Carlisle's reply was acid. " If Edward decides to go to Volterra, perhaps I'll be open to your assistance, but it's unlikely. He has no intention of going."_

_Her eyebrow quirked. " We'll see."_

_" Yes, we will."_

I could tell there was more to the conversation, but his memory of it drifted off at that point. Perhaps that was for the best, because what I'd seen was more than enough to contemplate.

"Chelsea thought she was trying to _help_ you?"

"In a way. She's so rarely assigned out of Volterra... when I saw her, I knew she was here to soften the blow of losing my companion... so that I wouldn't feel I'd lost anything of importance. To Aro's way of thinking, sending her _was_ an act of friendship."

Even being privy to so many of his thoughts and memories of the ancients, I still couldn't understand all the dynamics of his friendship with Aro. I couldn't think of two more different beings... but that was the least of what bothered me.

Would separating from me really injure Carlisle so much that he'd deliberately open up to Chelsea's influence to alleviate the pain? The very idea of that _hurt_ to think about. I had to tell him, to let him know...

He was confused when I took his hand, but he let me do it. Mindful of my strength, I placed the baseball in his upturned palm.

"You won't have to let her in," I said quietly, using both my hands to close his fist around the ball. "I haven't changed my mind, and I won't. I'm not going with them."

As I let go of his hand, he flexed his grip around the delicate lump of cork and leather, and a drabble of _Paradise Lost_ shielded his mind. I wanted to remind him that it was thoughts I could hear, not emotions, per se, although I'd learned that a mind can't help but _think_ of its emotions... in any case, the Milton went away almost as soon as it started.

"It's alright, Edward," he said. "Even if you did go, I wouldn't let Chelsea manipulate me... or you."

"I know. I trust you."

"As I trust you."

My eyes shut against the too-vivid memory of a red-tinged field, and a terrified, bleeding man I was lunging for...

"But you shouldn't trust me; not after what I did last night."

"I trust you to try your best, and I know you did that."

His words sent me back to the race to the farm, when I was trying so hard to think of what he'd say, what he'd advise... I _had_ tried...

And that's when I heard the whisper of other thoughts approaching, never more unwelcome. Fletcher and Demetri would be here in a few moments.

"They're almost here," I said, my eyes fluttering open. "You should know, Fletcher's in a different form now."

The circumstances of our hunt came to his mind.

_Is it the one you-_

"Yes."

_That must be disconcerting._

"Not as much as when he looked like me."

Carlisle nodded, glancing over my shoulder, and then a glint came to his eye as he looked back at me.

_Race you back?_

I grinned crookedly. "What's the point? You know I'll win."

I heard his decision to try and surprise me, to turn and run without warning, at the same time as he did it, and, of course, I overtook him with ease.

_It's just not fair,_ he lamented.

I laughed, slowing down until he caught up.

"You don't have to let me win," he muttered.

"I'm not. I just decided I don't want to race you. Not today."

_(to be continued)_

* * *

_A/N: Only one more chapter of the Volturi to go, folks! (and there was much rejoicing...)_

_This was going to be the last chapter of their visit, but it got way too long, so I split it. That's good news, though, because the second half is almost finished, so an update will come very soon. Well, soon for MLY, anyways. :D_

_I'll be catching up on review replies soon, too. Sorry about dropping the ball on that, everyone. I love reading your comments, theories and musings._

_And as always, thank you for reading._


	19. Interlude

Chapter 18 – Interlude

* * *

"_In our sun-down perambulations, of late, through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing "base," a certain game of ball..._

_Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms... the game of ball is glorious." _

_- _Walt Whitman, as quoted in the_ Brooklyn Daily Eagle, _July 23rd, 1846

* * *

Carlisle told me they'd just been practicing during the early morning hours - different types of pitches, developing a good swing - and it showed. When we leapt over the river, Santiago ran up to us, bat in hand, with his hair a mess and tie askew. An inquisitive-looking Chelsea was in tow. I noticed them both taking a deep breath, getting my scent, persuing my appearance and Carlisle's obvious ease and peace of mind. I almost couldn't resist the urge to give them the one-fingered salute.

_That's right, it's me, not your copycat, and my eyes are the same color they were before. Up yours.  
_

But there was no need. Chelsea's face pinched when it sank in that their plan had failed, but she recovered, offering a serene smile while Santiago slapped me on the shoulder.

"So this is what took you so long, _Stregone_," he said jovially, his gaze flickering over me- especially my clothes. "The hunt must have been eventful. Where are the others?"

"Not far," I replied.

"Don't tell me you actually caught that," he said to Carlisle, glancing at the ball in his hand.

"No, I didn't, actually," Carlisle replied, nodding towards me. "But it _was _caught."

"Perhaps you could play with us?" Chelsea asked me coquettishly. "_Stregone_ says you know all there is to know about baseball."

I shrugged.

"Why don't we split up into teams when Demetri and Fletcher get here?" Carlisle suggested. "With six of us we can have something resembling a real game."

"I'm sure Demetri would play. He likes anything competitive," Santiago said.

"And how did dear Fletcher take to your _diet_?" Chelsea asked, though she must've known the answer. It was faint now, but they both must have been able to pick up Franz's human scent on my clothes.

"Not at all," I replied dryly, and then turned to Carlisle. "I'm just going to go change."

While I headed into the cabin, Demetri and Fletcher showed up, and I half-listened to the greeting chatter. Naturally, Fletcher's new form was groused about for a moment, though his choice of meal was praised. It was only his words to Carlisle that I paid attention to.

"I'm sorry," he was saying. "It was my fault; Edward really did try."

"Yes, he did," Demetri said, and I felt his stare on my back as I leapt up the porch stairs. "Your protegé showed us the way to both kinds of prey- and very efficiently, too, I might add. He seemed very thirsty himself, and I'm afraid it got the better of-"

"Yes, he told me," Carlisle interrupted curtly. "It's only natural, of course. He hadn't scented flowing blood yet, and apparently it was shoved right in front of him."

The tête-à-tête continued, but I didn't pause, knowing Carlisle would handle it more coolly than I ever would. I let the porch's screen door slap shut behind me, hoping no one would follow.

And no one did.

I paused outside my room, a coward. As hard as Carlisle had tried to assuage my conscience about last night, in the end there was no turning away from what I'd done. I didn't want to see the things in here now.

When the door finally creaked open at my nudge, the first sight to greet me was a set of shelves on the other side of the narrow room. My old mitt and ball were there, along with some pewter toy soldiers I'd felt compelled to grab from the Magnolia house. There were my notebooks, a stack of sheet music, my father's favorite pocket watch, one of my mother's handkerchiefs, my pocketknife, and my graduation patch and class ring from The Latin School, which they'd sent by mail, along with a diploma and letter of congratulations for passing my exams with perfect marks. I'd never worn the ring or sewn the patch to my blazer, which was gathering dust in the wardrobe.

There was a stack of personal letters; most were from my Aunt Sophie, which I'd answered with as little concrete information as possible, and four were from boys who, according to the debris of my human memories, had been school friends... which I hadn't answered at all.

Lionel. One of them was Lionel. I remembered him the clearest. Probably the smartest kid I ever knew, and he had the most incisive sense of humor. You wouldn't cross swords with him in a duel of wits if you knew what was good for you. There were several times over the last ten months... my first ten months... that I'd wished I could talk to him again. It wouldn't be wise. If there was anyone from my old life who'd sniff out just how different I was, even in writing, it would be him.

And my father...

I'd gravitated to the shelves without thinking, having taken his pocket watch in my hand. I'd studiously kept it wound, and as I watched it tick away in my palm, I remembered what Carlisle had told me time and time again, about how important it was to keep those memories close...

Of how proud my father was when I worked at his firm, even if it was just ferrying around mail and messages, sometimes doing research. Of one time when I was small, the only time I remember seeing tears in his eyes, when he'd told me that my mother had suffered the miscarriage of what would have been my baby sister... that memory had triggered my only remembrance of my mother looking very pregnant at some point. There was also a memory of a day when I was eleven, and during breakfast my father showed me the morning paper with its huge headlines about the _RMS_ _Titanic_ sinking, and when I didn't look appropriately stunned, he'd walked me around four city blocks to drive home how big the ship had been. I remembered how bonkers he was about automobiles and when he showed me the ins and outs of the internal combustion engine. There was the time I pilfered things from his closet when I was eight and clomped around in his shoes – which I'd kept on by tying the laces around my ankles – wearing a tie that hung to my knees, my hands swallowed up in huge sheepskin gloves.

I remembered too well how he died.

For all that, I couldn't remember what color his eyes had been. Through Carlisle's memory of treating him, I saw they'd been a steely blue-gray, like the color of Lake Michigan on a cloudy day. But I wished I could remember on my own.

I'd wished a lot of things when it came to my lost human life. After last night, I didn't really have the right to wish for them anymore.

Imagining what any of those people would do if they had seen me with those lifeless black eyes, lunging to kill, to feed...

They would have recoiled in horror, said that they didn't know that _monster_. One by one, they'd turn their backs on me. As they should. The boy they knew _was_ gone.

There was only one thing I felt right about wishing for when it came to my human life, which was that I'd let go of it when I had the chance. I should've let everyone think I'd died of the flu. It would be so much better that way- better than staring at these enveloped letters, each penned by someone who thought they were writing to their nephew, their friend...

There was a shout outside, and my gaze lifted to the window. Carlisle and Chelsea whipped into view, each coming from opposite sides of the cabin, racing for a ball that had cleared it from the other side. Chelsea was going to make the catch, and looked to be relishing the prospect, laughing, her eyes darting from Carlisle to the ball. With a graceful leap, she caught it right before it sailed into the woods, and then landed in a soft, gauzy cyclone.

"He would be eliminated if this were a game, wouldn't he?" she crowed.

"Fletcher would be _out_, Chelsea," Carlisle replied. "Out. Not eliminated."

She chirped out a "ha!" and ran off, disappearing around the other side of the cabin again, with Carlisle in hot pursuit. At the same time, I heard Fletcher and Santiago talking about divvying up into teams.

It was eerie, witnessing part of my human life bleed over into this immortal world. Baseball, of all things. And they liked it. Maybe a game was a game was a game, regardless of how many centuries one has existed- or maybe _because_ of those centuries. I guessed I'd know someday. All the same, it was a sort of bitter consolation that I'd infected this new world in some way, even if it wasn't anywhere near as much as it had infected me.

I changed into something I didn't mind getting ruined and grabbed my old baseball off the shelf, leaving the mitt behind.

I didn't need it anymore.

* * *

The morning and afternoon were a welcome contrast to the previous twenty four hours. With no intrigue or ulterior motives left, our visitors relaxed into what they'd said they were coming here for in the first place: respite in the company of friends. Having spent yesterday with literature and music, everyone looked forward to a physical diversion. Carlisle had already educated Chelsea and Santiago about the rules of the game, and Demetri proved to be a quick study, not only soaking up all the information rapidly, but suggesting effective ways of parsing out the jobs of nine field players to three.

"How should we choose teams?" Fletcher asked.

"How about new world versus old?" Chelsea suggested. "Myself, Santiago and Demetri-"

"Oh, no-no-no," Demetri said with a roll of his eyes. "That puts all the experience of this little game on one side."

"I'd hardly call myself experienced," Carlisle said.

"That may be, but Edward and Fletcher know it very well."

"I'd be happy to join Edward and Cullen," Santiago said. "Fletcher, you don't object to lending the benefit of your experience to Demetri and Chelsea, do you?"

Fletcher shrugged. "I guess not- as long as I get to pitch."

And so that's how it was.

After divvying up into a team with me and Carlisle, Santiago went to bat first and swung at a pitch of Fletcher's - the hit was thunderous; a line drive that pulverized the ball when it smashed into a spruce that had long shaded the southern end of the porch. The jarring impact cracked the tree trunk, and as the giant groaned and fell, it was Demetri who shot to the roof and kept the thing from crashing into our cabin.

We came to the conclusion that we needed to move the game elsewhere, and we probably couldn't play in the nearby woods without creating conspicuous damage. We required a very _roomy_ diamond, estimating that at least a quarter mile was needed between bases so there'd be a reasonable chance of fielding a hit before the batter could run home.

So we spent a few minutes preparing to abandon the cabin. Demetri, Fletcher and Santiago took a page from Carlisle and me, duffing shoes, jackets and ties, rolling up sleeves and cuffs. Chelsea didn't have anything "appropriate" to wear, and so came to terms with the possibility of another ruined dress. The sun had been up for about an hour when we set out, making sure we had plenty of bats and balls, anticipating the need for extras. It was a good thing Carlisle had purchased a glut of them last week on his way out of Milwaukee. That pail full of balls he'd brought to my spot by the river was just the beginning of what he'd actually bought.

We led the way to a large, suitably remote clearing some miles to the southwest. It was hilly prairie land with scrubby little trees dotting the landscape here and there. A road ran through it, but the rough dirt track was weedy and little-used, and we'd hear anyone on the road long before they came into our view, or we came into theirs. So we settled in and spread out.

Up until the throw that had crippled Aaron Barnes, I'd thought the game I'd played in Milwaukee had been fun... but it wasn't.

_This _was fun. I didn't have to rein in my speed or strength. I could swing in earnest, and watch the ball sail away into an azure sky bursting with sunlight while I ran at full speed. I could leap and grab and roll and plow a furrow with my body without a second thought. I could throw as fast and as far as I wanted, and no one was going to get hurt.

The thing was, so could they. It was a challenge_, _even though I was still technically somewhat stronger and faster than they were. Chelsea and Demetri even got me out a couple times apiece, and took a great deal of delight in doing so.

My favorite moment by far happened in the field; because of my speed, I was my team's lone outfielder, while Santiago played catcher and shortstop, sharing base coverage with Carlisle, who pitched. Demetri was first up to bat, and he got a fast slap-hit out of a slider Carlisle threw; the ball ricocheted at a funny angle against a boulder, shooting almost vertically way up into the sky. I ran and launched into the air, and as I did I closed my eyes...

I knew exactly where I was and where that ball was going to meet me... I could hear Demetri's steps beating lightly along the ground below... sun-warmed air slipped around me like silk... I could smell dust and pollen and grass, and even the sunlight itself seemed to have a heady scent. The entire play, from the hit to the out, probably took no more than five seconds, but time seemed suspended when I was airborne... I thought that this must be what it's like to fly. My grip closed around the ball, then came the descent, air whipping and whistling as I dropped feet first... I opened my eyes, spotting my target.

I couldn't get Demetri out with that catch since the ball had already touched the ground, but I didn't need to relay it, either. I aimed at his form speeding between third and home- he was almost there- and I unleashed all my strength into my throw. The ball hit Demetri square in the back and he slapped down chest-first into rocks and dirt with an "oof," skidding a good twenty feet while I landed about a fifty yards away, grinning like a madman.

Demetri being Demetri, I was prepared to be called an assface or something like that, but he just rolled over on his back, laughing, his shirt destroyed.

It was a _really_ good game, and we just kept going, inning after inning, all day.

I only had one real advantage: being able to read their thoughts. And while the three Volturi were still thinking in Silesian, they often visualized what they were going to do. Still, I ignored what I saw as much as possible. That was the only thing I had to hold back on, though, and the freedom was intoxicating.

Fletcher, Santiago and Chelsea splintered one bat each, though Santiago was the only one who accidentally crushed a few baseballs when he caught them, which he was overly contrite about. Chelsea took to the game like a duck to water, her fervent enthusiasm bordering on obsessive, while Demetri enjoyed it with the same odd mix of blasé and ferocity that, I was starting to understand, he brought to anything he did.

Fletcher was my only real peer in the game, being the only one whose human life had been contemporary to mine. In the US of A, a boy would have to grow up under rock to have never played baseball. Fletcher was a good contender, but it wasn't his skills on the field that preoccupied me. I vigilantly monitored his thoughts for even a whisper of something related to escaping, but, thank God, I never heard anything worrisome.

Eventually I realized that was at least in part due to Chelsea. The true intrigue may have been over with, but there was still that one part of Chelsea's thought patterns, the one that flowed like a narrowly focused, repetitively pulsing stream, just like it had earlier when it was directed at Carlisle. But she was clearly concentrating it on Fletcher now, as we'd hoped for. His thoughts were unfettered and open as he enjoyed the game... maybe that's why he didn't notice it. He'd spoken yesterday of feeling Chelsea's influence when he was confined to the Packard with her, when he'd been scared, thirsty and on edge. But right now he was nourished and distracted and enjoying himself, entirely unaware of how comfortable he was becoming in the Volturi's company; even Demetri didn't really irritate him.

It was my turn up to bat at one point, with Fletcher pitching, and as he geared up for the throw one part of his mind jumped around from one pitch to another, trying not to decide on any one particular kind until he threw it, while another was suddenly aware of how good of a time he was having, wondering how it would be if things had gone differently last night... if we'd grabbed Demetri and shoved him into that inferno...

_When I think about what I'd be doing right now instead of this... pretending to be the tracker, scared shitless that they'd catch on... getting ready to run who knows where for God knows how long... _

And with that he threw a heck of a fast ball, which I swung at, and missed by an embarrassing margin of error. Demetri flung it back to Fletcher with a jubilantly shouted, 'Strike one!"

The triumphant pitcher grinned at me, concluding his thought._ Thanks for talking me out of that last night, Ed._

"You're welcome," I said flatly, pointing my bat at Fletcher. "But call me 'Ed' one more time, and-"

"Don't worry about what I'm calling you," he interrupted, tapping his temple. "Just keep your eye on the ball this time."

"Foul!" cried Chelsea from the outfield.

"What?"

Every player's gaze locked onto her in confusion as she pointed at me.

"Fletcher's_ talking_ to him," she accused.

"So?" he asked.

"Shouldn't there be a rule against telepathic conversation between players? How do we know you and Edward aren't conspiring to throw the game?"

"Are you crazy? Me and Eddie aren't even on the same team!"

Demetri had a good snicker at my constipated expression just then. It wasn't just the "Eddie" nickname that irritated me, though. Of all people, _Chelsea_ was complaining about psychic subterfuge. Boy, was I itching to make a remark or two about about how rich that was.

But I resisted, and with a little cajoling she was assured that Fletcher hadn't been communicating anything game-related to me, and that I wasn't taking advantage of anything I heard from anyone's thoughts, and the game resumed.

And so did my confidence in Fletcher's state of mind.

He'd scoffed earlier at the Volturi being called "civilized," but internally he admitted that _this- _playing a leisurely game of ball before setting off to board a ship for Europe- would have been impossible before. The wild hedonism of his old coven seemed so primitive and aimless now. It was all he'd known, all he'd thought there was to being a vampire; now he wasn't sure he'd go back to it even if he could. He was starting to look forward to the possibilities ahead.

I wondered if that particular line of thinking was just a side effect of Chelsea's gift, or if, perhaps, Fletcher really was discovering that he preferred a more civilized existence.

I didn't get long to wonder about that, though. All good things must come to an end, and about three hours before sunset, so did our game, though not by any means we'd anticipated.

I learned that day that there are some rules you just can't get away from, even as an immortal. One of the rules of baseball is this: it doesn't matter if you're playing with two people or thirty, out in the boonies or on a city street. It really doesn't matter. If there's a pane of glass anywhere within batting distance, one of your balls will find it and break it.

So maybe it shouldn't have come as any surprise when Santiago's most spectacular hit sailed beyond a rise shrouding the southern approach of the road we were by, and Chelsea stopped chasing it all of a sudden. She'd heard the engine a split second before the rest of us.

It was some sort of freight truck, as was discernible from the wood-and-metal shimmy of its frame as it rattled along the jagged road. We all froze right about the same time, each mind calculating the trajectory of the ball, the approach of the truck...

"_Merda_," Santiago mumbled.

Then came the faint crack of glass splitting, the dirty scrunch of tires skidding as brakes were applied, and a panicked, furious voice.

"_God dammit-sonofabitch! Where the hell did that come from?"_

The truck halted, its horn blaring as the driver pitched a fit of pounding on the steering wheel.

There's another rule that accompanies this scenario: once the damage has been done, if you're lucky enough not have been caught in the act, you run, and God help those who stay behind to face the consequences. And whoever those poor, conscience-ridden saps are, they don't give up their accomplices who fled no matter what. Fletcher knew about this rule. The Volturi didn't, but they still knew exactly what to do.

Four vampires ran away.

Carlisle remained with me on the field, paralyzed by indecision.

_We can't let ourselves be seen in all this light... but we should take responsibility, shouldn't we? Maybe we should just get close enough for you to pick up on his thoughts. Maybe you'll be able to find out who he is and then we'll mail an apology note with a check..._

Then, coming from beyond that hill, the truck's sputtering engine cut off as the driver's door opened and then slammed shut.

"_God damn kids! Where are you, you little bastards?"_

I snorted, and we took off, trying not to laugh too loudly.

* * *

They heard me coming, but let me knock anyway. After I did, Santiago opened the door to the room he and Demetri had been keeping their things. Fletcher stood just off behind him, buttoning up a silk vest of Santiago's, whose clothes did, indeed, fit him almost perfectly. They were a little tight- Fletcher's new frame was slightly larger than Santiago's. Still, he was as polished-looking as could be- even his hair was slicked back. Franz would have made an imposing vampire. His crimson gaze settled on the black trunk I'd just gotten down from my wardrobe.

"I thought you might still need this," I said.

"Very gracious of you, _Eduardo,_" Santiago replied, hoisting a steamer trunk onto his shoulder, passing me on his way out of the room. "And he _will_ need it once we get to New York."

I set the trunk down as Fletcher stared at me, noodling around for some appropriate way to say goodbye.

"Does Cullen go to Italy often?" he finally asked.

"No. I don't think he's been back since coming over to the States."

"Well then... I guess I shouldn't expect to see either of you again for a long time."

"Probably not."

"Thank you for the suitcase and... everything." He stuck one of his new hands out for a shake, which I accepted. Franz had had large hands... if he'd had Fletcher's strength, he might still have been alive.

When our hands separated, his gaze fell, and his memory wandered back to the dread and fear twisting inside when he'd first seen this cabin. "You know, I never expected any of this when they brought me here. I was convinced I'd never leave this place alive."

"Yeah, I picked up on that," I said with a smirk. "You were something of a surprise yourself."

He frowned a little, remembering the murderous look on my face when I saw him in my form. "No hard feelings?"

I shook my head. "Besides, the way I see it, I still owe you for last night."

His gaze turned curious._ So strange, to be thanked for that. I wonder if he'll ever give in... if he'll ever really find out why that wasn't a favor._

"I don't have to experience it firsthand to know what I'm missing out on."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I don't care how clearly you know the thoughts of others, or how bad your thirst was last night. Real feeding is one experience you really _do _have to try for yourself to appreciate. Not that you should," he added anxiously. "Each to his own, after all."

His eyes darted away as his mind churned with worry that I'd think he was joining the chorus of vampires suggesting I feed on human blood.

"I didn't mean to-"

"No, I know," I said. "To be honest, I sometimes wondered when I'd hear those words for myself, after hearing them in Carlisle's memories so much. Most of the vampires he's met have told him the exact same thing- that he doesn't know what he's missing."

"And he agreed with them, in so many words," Demetri muttered as he popped through the doorway, giving me a sardonic look. "At least _Stregone_ admits it. It's too bad you lack a maturity that admits to the same deficiency of knowledge."

My jaw clenched.

"You know, so far it hasn't bugged me that you disguise your thoughts," I grumbled. "But right now I'd be really interested to know if you're capable of going longer than a couple of hours without saying something to deliberately piss me off."

He just laughed, moving around Fletcher to gather up some odds and ends, placing them in his own obsessively neat trunk. Fletcher tried to disengage from the conversation, using the moment to finish dressing and slide into a jacket.

"For that you don't need to see into my mind, newling," Demetri said to me. "I freely admit that I cannot help myself – and I believe I advised you to overlook it when I'm being antagonistic."

"Oh, that's right. Nobody in Volterra pays attention to it anymore, so I shouldn't either. Too bad you lack a maturity that exercises restraint so others don't _have_ to learn to ignore you."

"Touché," he replied, latching his trunk shut. Hoisting it on his shoulder the way Santiago had, he grinned wryly as he held his other hand out to me. "I look forward to the day we meet again, young Edward. You don't have to pretend the feeling is mutual."

I grudgingly shook his hand; at least he didn't try to hide what a bastard he was. Still, it went beyond just being some charming rascal- that's how everyone seemed to take him. But after last night I knew better, and as I shook his hand, gazing past that grin of his into those red eyes, I just knew that even if Demetri were human, he'd still be some kind of monster.

And he'd get away with it.

I wasn't aware of it until I saw discomfort twitch in his face and felt the flex of his fingers under mine- I was gripping too hard. His smirk faltered when I released his hand.

"Sorry," I said. "Sometimes I still don't know my own strength."

Demetri's recovery was quick; he chuckled darkly and patted my cheek. "You may need that strength someday. Take care of yourself, _Eduardo._"

Sharing a glance with each other, Fletcher and I followed Demetri out to join the others in the living room. The porch doors were open, letting in cool evening air, the sun having set some time ago. Chelsea was seated at the piano, conversing pleasantly with Carlisle and Santiago. She stopped mid-sentence when we came in.

"Demetri, would you bring it in for me?" she asked sweetly as he headed out the doors with his trunk. "It's in my top case."

Carlisle looked at her quizzically, and she just smiled in return. Within seconds Demetri was back inside, having stowed away his belongings in the Packard, but now bearing an item apparently retrieved from Chelsea's luggage: a large, stiff leather tube that he handed to her.

She stood with the cylinder resting delicately in both palms, presenting it to Carlisle. "This is for you, _Stregone_, from Aro."

_Interesting, _Carlisle thought._ What is this supposed to be? Something he had in mind as a consolation prize if Edward went with them?_

"That's kind," came the polite vocal response. He popped open the cap at the end of the tube and used the pad of his thumb to slide out a canvas within.

He unrolled it on the surface of the piano bench, pulling away protective cloth from the face of the painting. Even as bitter as he was about all that had happened during this visit, Carlisle's thoughts slipped into pure admiration of the work of art before him. To keep it unrolled, he laid stacks of sheet music on the top and bottom edges so he could study it fully.

I drifted closer, drawn in. The artist had used thick layers of color, mixing metallic tints into it that caught the light, creating a luminescent, jeweled effect. Unlike the rest of the art in Carlisle's collection it was clearly modern, but as for categorizing it... a half dozen modes could claim it, and yet it truly belonged to none of them. It depicted a single being that dominated the center of the canvas: a masculine face and shoulders, ethereal, crowned. One of its raised hands, entwined with a serpent, held a long dagger, and dangling from chains in the other hand was a lantern with fiery light burning inside. Surrounding the figure, threatening to engulf it, was a storm of feather and wing, defined and yet not...

"A seraph," Carlisle murmured.

"It's called _Six-Winged Seraph," _Chelsea said as her gaze traveled from the painting to peruse Carlisle's entranced face. "The artist is a Russian called Mikhail Vrubel, who says it was inspired by the fable of a man dying in the desert, found by a seraph. The seraph touched the man's mouth, eyes and ears, giving him senses greater than other men's, so that he could truly could experience all of God's works. And then the seraph cut out the man's heart and replaced it with holy fire, so the man would rise and go forth to forever carry that fire to mortals."

"The artist as medium between the supernatural and the natural." Carlisle said, and Chelsea nodded, looking to the painting again.

"Aro saw something more, should it be taken literally... and put into a certain context. Don't you agree?"

Carlisle smiled, his gaze still fixed on the painting. "Aro knows me too well."

I snorted. "That shouldn't be difficult. He knows everyone he touches too well."

There was a round of snickers at that, except from Fletcher, who smirked uncertainly through his confusion. This was the second time he'd heard someone allude to Aro's ability, but both hints had been vague, so I decided to clear it up for him. It might be the only time anyone would elaborate before he met the ancient vampire himself.

"Aro's one of the Volturi triad, who founded and head the coven," I said. "He's like me, only worse."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"He can read your mind, but-"

"He's not like Edward," Demetri interrupted. "Aro must touch you to know your thoughts."

"_But," _I continued, "as soon as he touches you, Aro instantly absorbs every thought and memory you've ever had."

Fletcher's face went slack with disbelief for a moment, and then looked rather sullen. _That figures. I just can't get away from mind-readers, can I?_

"Well, this is exquisite, Chelsea," Carlisle said, steering the conversation back to easier terrain. "I'll treasure it."

"Aro will be so pleased."

"Pass along my gratitude." Carlisle smiled, knowing perfectly well Aro would see the entire event in perfect clarity. "And I hope you still have room in the Packard, because Edward and I have something for you to take back to Volterra, as well."

He exchanged a glance with me; I nodded and headed to a hall closet, where I retrieved a canvas bag. This was something he'd suggested to me during the game, and it sounded like a good idea. When I got back to the living room, I handed to the bag Chelsea.

"Oh, I know what this is," she said with with an excited grin, unzipping it.

Of course she did. There's no mistaking the scent of cork, oiled leather, and newly polished ash wood. None of it was used, of course. This was what was left of the stash of new stuff.

"I don't know how much use the triad will get from them," Carlisle said. _Aro, Caius and Marcus are such stationary creatures, after all. _"But much of the coven was always up for a new sport, as I recall. This should make a nice addition to the repertoire. Has baseball caught on it Italy yet?"

"Not to my knowledge," Santiago replied.

"This is to just get you started," Carlisle said. "I'll send more."

"Good, because we'll need them," Chelsea exclaimed.

I wasn't the only one who thought it strange. None of us would've expected her zeal, but damned if she hadn't fallen in love with baseball that day.

"The usual field for sports, don't you think?" Demetri asked her, picturing an immense Apenninan meadow.

Several alternate locations occurred to her though, and as they discussed logistics of getting a game together after their return to Italy, Carlisle turned his attention to his new painting.

"It's delicate," Santiago warned him, sauntering up. "Caius has another work of Vrubel's, just four years older than this one, but it's already fading. It's the metallic powders in the color- they make for a lovely effect, but fade quickly."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Speaking of things that fade," Demetri said, his gaze on the dark blue and violet sky outside, "we should be going. It's been dark enough for a while now."

"So it has," Chelsea sighed. She couldn't have been feeling too deprived, however- an image of her mate, Afton, floated feverishly through her mind. "Demetri, will you escort Fletcher to the car?"

Demetri nodded. "Come along, then."

Fletcher hesitated; he'd come to terms with the unknowns of his journey as much as possible, he'd said almost all his goodbyes. But for one. Turning away from Demetri, he strode to Carlisle with an outstretched hand.

"Thank you," he said. "It was an honor..." He fought the urge to use the word "sir" as he shook Carlisle's hand. He hadn't addressed anyone that way since... well, it must have been when he was still human, because he couldn't remember. And as appropriate as it felt, it also seemed incongruous, given the rest of the circumstances. Besides, in human years, Carlisle was definitely younger than he was.

That was interesting. I never had heard anything in Fletcher's mind that pegged his human age when he was changed, but the amount of memories and experience... it seemed like he'd been an adult for some years. As a human, maybe he was older than everyone in that room.

"You're welcome. It was my privilege as well," Carlisle told him. "Use that talent of yours wisely."

"I'll try." _Depends on what they have in mind, doesn't it?_

With one more look around, a resigned Fletcher Dunn picked up my empty black trunk and walked out of the cabin, mostly wondering what his next form would be.

Demetri didn't shake Carlisle's hand or say goodbye in so many words. He merely nodded at him in acknowledgment and followed Fletcher outside.

It was Santiago who went up to him next, and while he spoke to Carlisle I found a luminescent Chelsea drifting to me.

_Aro will see all of this, as you know, _she said silently, giving me a radiant smile._ Is there any message you'd like to pass on to him?_

I thought for a moment before replying. "I'm in good company here."

"I'm sure he would agree," she said, bemused. _I can't pretend I'm not disappointed that you aren't accompanying us, _she continued, and then ever-so-lightly, briefly, she caressed my cheek, gazing at me in contemplation. _But I am glad for Stregone, and glad for you, too. He is a good mentor. Take care of him._

I found that an odd sentiment, since I was hardly in a position to take care of Carlisle. Things were the other way around. But what she said made me glance at him, engrossed in his parting words with Santiago, and I had to remind myself that he'd spent decades with these creatures. They did know him better than I did, maybe. He had vulnerabilities.

"I will."

"Farewell, Edward. I hope we see each other again soon."

As beautiful as she was in that moment, I couldn't return the sentiment, and my "goodbye" was succinct.

As Carlisle and Chelsea then said very gracious parting words to one another, Santiago approached me with his own formal farewell, his thoughts also peppered with English-spoken things. They were like Chelsea's had been- all about how glad he was that Carlisle had changed me and that I "turned out" so well, etc.

Thing was, I got the impression that he meant it more than she did.

* * *

(to be continued)

* * *

_A/N: I've been working on this ginormous chapter, which includes the end of the Volturi's visit, quite a bit over the last four months. More than 23,000 words and a half-dozen discarded ideas later, it's finally finished, but for a few details. Because of it's length, however, I've chosen to break it up into more than one chapter. 23,000 words is, after all, well into novella territory. When I get really bummed about how long it's been since I updated, I try to think of it this way: the average length of chapters in fic is 3,000 words, so, in a way, I've written close to eight chapters over the last few months. :D (will ya buy that?) The next installment will be up before you know it._

**_Tidbit:_ **_Mikhail Vrubel's _Six-Winged Seraph: _h ttp :/ www (dot) russianartgallery (dot) org /vrubel / seraph (dot) htm_**  
**

_It really is a gorgeous work of art._ _The fable Chelsea refers to _(_about the encounter between a man and a seraph in the desert) as Vrubel's inspiration is from Alexander Pushkin's poem, _The Prophet.

_**Thank you **to those who nominated and supported _MLY_ in the Vampies! It was up for "Bloody Brilliant" (best overall story), "Just Like Stephenie Used to Make" (best canon) and "Bloody Newborn" (best characterization of a newborn vampire). That was fabulous. Thanks, you guys._

_**Last issue (others will be addressed in the A/N for the next chapter): **I am a Carlward fan. I lurve me some good Carlward. Given their circumstances and intimate understanding of each other, it's such a natural pairing, and so easy to see why and how they would devote themselves to one another (and let's face it, they're both such sexy beasts, how could they not be attracted?). It looks like some of you are wondering if _MLY_ is headed there. Sorry to let you down, but this isn't that story. _

_Thank you for reading anyway. :) I will be catching up on PMs and review replies as soon as I can.  
_


	20. Interlude, Pt II

Chapter 19 – Interlude, Pt. II

_Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, _

_Our passion is too full in flood,_

_We want the key of his wild note _

_Of truthful in a tuneful throat, _

_The song seraphically free _

_Of taint of personality _

_- _from_ The Lark Ascending _by George Meredith

* * *

Carlisle and I were on the porch as they drove away, and stayed there after they were out of sight. We heard the Packard turn off gravel and dirt onto pavement, and the engine motored away. In its wake was the slow, gentle rippling of the Milwaukee... a night breeze whisking papery fall leaves... a canopy of brilliant stars. Carlisle's thoughts weren't hidden, but silent nonetheless... suspended, like a held breath.

After several minutes, the last whispers of Silesian had finally muted.

"They're gone," I murmured.

Still more silence from his brain, and then...

_They're really gone._

It was like I wasn't even there. He moved as though in a trance... just a step or two back before sinking into an Adirondack chair – where he went still, a distant gaze locked on the driveway.

The back of his mind registered the peace of his surroundings, the renewed vacancy of them... except for the presence he had spent so much time preparing for being gone, and yet it wasn't.

_He's still here... _His gaze traveled to me. "How are you still here?"

"You really thought I'd be gone with them."

He barely nodded, then stared back out at nothing in the nighttime woods, his thoughts a tangle of ruminations about the events of the last two days. I slid down to sit on the porch, my back against a log beam, elbows resting on my knees.

"Coming from a man of faith, that's incredibly pessimistic, Carlisle."

He smirked absently, but still didn't speak.

"You knew what they would try to do, didn't you? The blood. That's what you were hiding."

"In part," he replied softly. "The most persuasive tool they could use to recruit you would be human blood. I suspected they'd use it to their advantage if they could."

"I should've realized that's why you were suddenly in such a hurry to build up my resistance to it."

He still didn't say anything, lost in his thoughts.

"You must have held out at least a little hope," I continued after a few minutes. He glanced at me then. "All that prodding to hold onto my strength, all the trips into town. You must have thought there was a chance."

"I just wanted you to have as much of your own wherewithal as possible to draw on when the time came. I wanted it to be-"

"-my choice," I finished quietly, having heard the words before he said them. Inevitably, it called to mind the previous night, when I'd made the wrong choice despite all his efforts to desensitize me. It hadn't even felt like a _choice_, though. Once that scent hit me, I'd been a goner. "I'm sorry it didn't do any good."

"It did. Your resistance to blood is-"

"-prodigious, sure," I finished again. "I felt really prodigious last night when my mouth was full of dirt because Fletcher shoved me away from that man I tried to kill."

"It's not your fault, Edward."

"And this is where you tell me that the thirst is to blame."

"Not by itself," he said after a moment. "The thirst always influences us to some extent, but you never would have been in that position, at its mercy, if it hadn't been for them. And they wouldn't have even been here if it weren't for me." His face darkened. _My stupid pride. I was so eager to crow about the success of your change, your progress. I don't know why it didn't occur to me that he'd try something like this when I wrote to him. _

I elected to ignore his guilty attempt at self-incrimination.

"I guess it doesn't matter what Aro tried, does it?" I said. "Whatever his plans, he never anticipated Fletcher."

The corner of his mouth curled just a slight bit. _Who would have?_ _That gift of his is like nothing we've ever seen. One of us, able to change our physique in any small way, let alone entirely? I_ _wonder which one of them decided to use him here instead of sending him ahead to New York with the others._

I remembered their "private" conversation about him when they arrived; Chelsea's skepticism about Fletcher's presence, while Demetri and Santiago supported it.

"It must have been Demetri or Santiago. You heard the same thing I did when they said-"

I was interrupted by a pointed look – and thought – from Carlisle.

"That whole conversation was for our benefit?"

"Of course," he replied. "They would have loved for us to think that bringing Fletcher here was just to keep him out of trouble."

"After last night I suspected they'd kept him thirsty on purpose so he'd have to hunt here, but..." I drifted off.

_Yes, they're meticulous planners, _Carlisle thought drolly.

After a while, I broke the silence again. "I should've known, especially since the one with the most power to control him wasn't even here."

He raised an eyebrow. _The new one? Jane?_

"Apparently all she has to do is look at you and think of inflicting torturous pain, and you're in it. She'd done it to Fletcher briefly; what I saw in his memory was more than enough. It's excruciating... maybe as bad as the change."

Just as I imagined, that news disturbed Carlisle somewhat._ Is it physically damaging?_

"Nope. You come out of it fine; it's all a trick of her mind. But while she's doing it you're down for the count, and they're free to rip you apart. If Fletcher needed controlling, they'd only need her."

_No wonder she's the triad's new favorite. I'm glad they didn't bring her._

"That makes two of us."

"So you were able to read Fletcher's thoughts the whole time? He didn't hide anything?"

"He didn't even try." I paused then, remembering what I'd heard over the course of his time with us. "You know, I think his gift might go beyond the physical. Last night, in the hours just before he changed forms, there were times when even his mental voice was starting to sound like mine."

"You mean the tone of it or the thoughts themselves?"

"Just the tone. But his syntax was starting to adapt, too... patterns."

_Interesting. Maybe I wasn't just imagining it yesterday afternoon, then._

I was going to ask what he meant, but a memory of the flare-up I'd had on the porch with Fletcher was already playing in Carlisle's mind. _That show of temper was so similar to how you behave when you're frustrated._

I snorted. "You just think that because he looked like me at the time."

His wry thoughts told me that he wasn't convinced of my theory, but Carlisle didn't contradict me aloud.

"If you say so," was all he said. _In any case, it's too bad Fletcher had to leave so soon. It would have been interesting to study the extent of his ability._

"Well, if you're ever around him again for a while and still feel curious, have him copy _you."_

Carlisle chuckled, a laugh that faded quickly when he actually envisioned what it would be like... which led to other thoughts.

"I hope he isn't in Demetri's form for long when they go to Volterra," he said. "I imagine Demetri's amusement with Fletcher's imitation of him will be short-lived."

It was me laughing this time. How right he was. I could just imagine how quickly Demetri would turn sour about something like that.

"Did you like him when you were in Volterra?" I asked.

"Demetri? Not particularly. Neither of us really befriended the other. Why?"

"There's something sadistic about him."

_The man from last night?_

"Mostly. There was a dog, too."

That confused him. _Demetri killed a dog, and that disturbed you? Oh... I never thought... did you have a dog before...?_

"No, I didn't. It's not that."

Carlisle's brow furrowed as he suddenly wondered just how sensitive I was, if my conscience was in a quandary when I killed animals to sustain myself.

"No, really," I chuckled. "It's not that, either."

"I'm sure he was just taking a precaution. Dogs have been known to track our scent and lead humans investigating the deaths of their owners to coven sites. It's easily dealt with when it happens, of course, but it's better prevented altogether."

"It's the _way_ he did it. He tied it up under the porch to burn alive. I don't understand why he didn't just break its neck or something."

_I see... _"Well, our kind naturally gravitate towards fire as a method to kill..." _besides, the Volturi aren't fond of canines, especially Caius. A werewolf nearly killed him once, centuries ago. He hunted them to near extinction, and I believe Demetri was his most enthusiastic assistant-_

"Whoa, hold on. A _were_wolf?"

He chuckled. _Given what you are, are you really surprised that they exist, too? Or, I should say, that they used to exist. The Children of the Moon, as they were called, and-_

"How could it nearly _kill_ him? I thought that other vampires are the only ones strong enough to kill us."

_Werewolves matched our kind in strength; their teeth could penetrate our skin. They learned that we could be torn apart and burned. They were vicious creatures, terrors in their own right, and our enemies. Like the folklore of vampires, theirs is only accurate in part. They _were_ human, except on nights of the full moon, but the rest- silver bullets and whatnot- is untrue. As wolves, they were much larger than true wolves and nearly as indestructible as we are, and they lived longer than other humans. But no more. Since Caius's hunt, they haven't been heard from._

"And you were going to tell me about this _when?"_ I growled. "Christ, what else is out there? Dragons? Mermaids and unicorns- should I expect to see any of those? How about the incubus and succubus? Are there elves living at the North Pole? "

He grinned as if hiding a private joke, looking out into the woods, and then came images of creatures who looked to be vampires, but with eyes the color of mine and his... and they were female. Absolutely stunning, fair-haired beauties. "Actually, the legend of the succubi is based on a group-"

"I don't want to know," I groaned.

Carlisle laughed quietly, clearing his mind of visuals. _Well, no hurry. He'll meet them eventually._

"Do I have to?"

_You'll probably want to. _"They're good friends and we keep in touch, see each other every so often. The Alaskan coven is the only coven of vampires I know of who are also animal feeders."

So those were the ones everyone was talking about before.

"They followed your example?"

"No, they came to it in their own way, as a matter of conscience."

I snorted. "And you just had to write to the Volturi instead of them, huh?"

He sobered instantly. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about that, Edward."

"I know." I could hear every remorseful thought. "So Caius employed Demetri's talent for tracking when he was hunting down werewolves."

"Yes, and he hardly needed to twist Demetri's arm. Demetri is very... passionate about his contributions to the Volturi. As I understand it, he was very much a part of the cause to eradicate werewolves."

"And he was just being nostalgic, burning that dog?"

He shook his head dismissively. "I couldn't say. But to this day Caius despises all things canine. Most animals instinctively stay away, but there was one time I remember when a dog wandered close to the Volturi halls, and Caius happened to smell it. He sent Demetri out to dispose of the mongrel right away- just out of sheer pettiness. That's when I learned that, while human residents of Volterra are quite safe, any local dogs that stray too close to the Volturi aren't as lucky."

"I still think Demetri's sadistic. He tortured that man last night."

"You may be right. He does seem to enjoy the suffering of others. He's far from the only one of our kind who does, however."

"Speaking of suffering... I..."

When I trailed off, Carlisle's gaze fell on me, apprehensive.

_What's wrong? Edward? _"What is it?"

"No, don't worry. I'm not suffering. It's just that... I don't want to offend you."

_Oh... well, I can't imagine how you could offend me... _

"Even if you did," he said, "I'd rather you didn't hold back."

"All these months, you've thought they would find a way to get me to drink human blood, and you expected me to be gone after tonight. And you hid it."

_I did._

"You would have been hurt," I said quietly.

His breathing stopped. _That what's supposed to be offensive. _

"I'm sorry. I know how personal it is. I try not to pay attention when I hear stuff like that in your thoughts."

"I know, and I appreciate your discretion," he said carefully. He wasn't offended, but he _was _wondering what I was getting at.

_What do you want? Do you want me to elaborate on how I feel-_

"No," I said quickly. "I don't... no. I'm not looking for that. It's Aro."

_I don't understand._

"Neither do I," I said. "He's the one who warned you about loneliness, so he must have known what it would do to you to take away your companion. He sent Chelsea for just that reason- you said so yourself. He obviously knew you'd suffer, and he did that anyway." My jaw clenched. "I don't understand how you can still call that... _thing _your friend."

_Ah, I see. _His mind drifted through old memories of his time in Volterra, and of the singularity he encountered in the vampire known as Aro.

"He _is _a friend - at least, in his way – and I know it's difficult to understand, but he honestly wouldn't see this a breach of that friendship," he said, his frame shifting with a sigh. "To him, this is merely a game, a contest of philosophies, if you will. He never tired of trying to convince me that my path is aberrant, and getting you to join the Volturi would have been the ultimate way of making his point..." He frowned, shaking his head in resignation.

_Sometimes I think he might have done this even if you had no gift at all, just to prove that I couldn't expect you, or any vampire, to thrive without human blood. I think he might even have been satisfied if they'd succeeded in getting you to turn away from my way of life whether you joined them or not..._

"That's what this has been all about, Edward. It's not just about what you can do. Don't misunderstand- yours is a very powerful gift, and one that the triad would love to utilize. And, yes, they would have hoped for an opportunity to bring you into their fold, but centuries of unthwarted rule have made them very patient beings. They bide their time and wait for favorable circumstances."

"So why the rush now?"

"They wouldn't have been in a hurry if you'd been sired by any other vampire. But Aro knows me, and he knew that the more accustomed you were to living without human blood, the harder it would be to recruit you. His chances were better if they struck while you were still a newborn, while your thirst and emotions were at their most volatile."

"Why didn't you warn me about what they were going to do? About the blood?"

_For the same reason I tried to build up your resistance to it. So it would be your choice, made as fairly as possible, under the circumstances._

'That doesn't make any sense! How would it have been any less my choice if you'd warned me before?"

"What difference would it have made?" he replied calmly. "I'd already told you all I could about what it's like to be in the presence of human blood- no warning was going to make the scent less potent."

"I'll tell you what difference it would have made- I wouldn't have gone with them on that farce of a hunt! Hell, things wouldn't have even gone _that_ far. If you'd told me what you thought they were planning, I wouldn't even have let them get within ten miles of this place!"

At this Carlisle shook his head in frustration, looking away. _That's precisely the problem. He'll never understand unless I explain, and perhaps not even then._ _Is there any harm in telling him? I just don't know..._

I couldn't believe it. Not only was there apparently something else he'd been hiding, but _Paradise Lost_ started up in his brain again.

"Will you stop it? Or at least pick something else. I'm sick of _Paradise Lost._ I never even liked it to begin with."

That mildly surprised him. _You never said so before._

"Well, I am now. I hate it."

He chuckled and rose from the chair, wandering up to the rail. _Maybe I should hop in the Peerless and try to catch up to them; tell them to come back and take you, after all. Your taste in literature is wanting._

I snorted as he sat again, this time on the steps next to my spot. For a while I just waited for his mind to re-open as he gazed up at the night sky and its full moon. His thoughts remained hidden, but over the space a few moments their shroud abandoned Milton and melted into something else- something I recognized immediately. I gawped in shock.

"You speak Silesian?"

"Enough to communicate on a very basic level," he admitted. "I opened a private practice in northern New Hampshire several decades ago, and there happened to be a community of Silesian immigrants on the outskirts of town. It was small - just a half-dozen families – and they were very insular, only mixing with outsiders when it was absolutely necessary... except for me." He gave me a hassled, sidelong glance. "They were among the more superstitious peoples around; almost gypsy-like. Every fever, sneeze and cough was _surely_ a portent of horrible things to come, and to them doctors weren't just potential healers, but shamans of sorts. They demanded an inordinate amount of attention, and it got to the point that they were coming to my house when my practice was closed, and always for something trivial. Needless to say, that wasn't acceptable, so learning the language became a matter of necessity. I hid myself within hearing distance of their homes for several nights, listening to their chatter until I could understand enough of what they said." He smiled a bit. "When Chelsea named Silesian as the language you were hearing from their minds, it took some effort not to laugh."

"Why didn't you let me know?" I asked. "I could have relayed what I heard in their minds; not all of it, obviously, but some- and you could have translated. We would've known what they were thinking!"

_Exactly, _he thought, and with that Carlisle's own Silesian faded away. His mind slipped back to the night he read Aro's letter...

* * *

"...You'd be surprised how pleasant it is there- most of the time, at any rate," he'd said to me. "They have intellectual and academic pursuits, all of Europe within easy reach; it's a cultured life with purpose and friends, and they protect each other fiercely. Safest coven in the world, really."

"Good grief, Carlisle. You should write back and tell them not to bother coming. It sounds like you're willing to do the recruiting for them."

But he was too preoccupied by other questions in his brain. _It was inevitable he'd__ meet them someday__, but why initiate it, and why so soon? They never act on anything this quickly. This is breakneck speed for them. Well, I suppose it's not so out of the way if they already have some of the guard in the States... it's actually somewhat relieving to hear they're taking care of things down there, terrible as it will be... but_ _Aro must know that I- _

He stopped and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, like he was in pain. When he opened them again, he suddenly looked tired. I could tell he'd stumbled onto an answer to his questions, but what it was I didn't know, because another stream of Italian had already started from his mind.

I tapped the book he'd given me. "I'm reading this tonight. What language are you going to use to hide from me with after that?"

But he didn't respond. Carlisle sat motionless in his old chair with a haunted expression, lost in his foreign-tongued thoughts. The physical silence hung over the study for a solid minute before he finally said something.

"Edward, will you be alright if I step out for about an hour?" he murmured. "Hold your breath?"

* * *

"That was when you figured it out. What they would try to do."

He nodded. _I had to get away... I had to think. To be honest, I wanted desperately to warn you. It was my first instinct._

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I realized it would have been the first step in playing the game Aro wanted me to play. He would have expected me to tell you, to use you to any advantage I could, to strategize and plan, because that's how _he_ does things. That's one of the ways the triad controls their coven- by involving their most prized acquisitions in their exploits."

He went vocally quiet, remembering the cold, sunlit afternoon he'd walked into when he left the basement after reading Aro's letter... where he spent his time alone, on a jagged outcropping of rock that overlooked a plain, stretching into snow-covered farmland.

_That letter woke me up to more than one thing that day. I'd been thrust into a position I'd never been in before... having an agenda. _

"What agenda?"

_Aro had thrown down a gauntlet in our long debate, and you were the prize._ He looked at me squarely, pleading with me to understand. "What do you think my agenda would have been?"

My gaze fell at that. Of course it would be to keep me.

_It was more than enough that I'd already brought you into this existence, isolated you. I'd kept you from how others of our kind live; that, at least, was just to keep you from doing things you might not choose to do if you could help it._

_But running back and warning you, plotting with you... even letting you know I spoke Silesian after they arrived, so we could know their thoughts... it would have been tantamount to involving you in the game, the object of which was to deprive you of your own free will. I couldn't let myself do that, even if it meant giving up every advantage. _

"The only way to approach Aro's game was not to play it," he finished quietly. _My only remaining option was to just provide you with what you needed to make up your mind independently, and let you go when the time came. _

I let that sink in for a few moments, putting it into context with what had happened. It was true- he'd left it all up to me somehow. There was one thing, though...

"Chelsea," I said. "What about her?"

His gaze narrowed. _No, her gift isn't exactly conducive to free will, is it?_ "All that effort to restrain myself, to not involve you and let you do as you would... and he sends _her,_" he grumbled. "I suspected she was mostly here to deal with me, and when I felt her failing to dissolve my connection to you it was a relief. But then I saw you gravitating towards her so much that first day... "

"That's why you broke your silence about her."

A nod.

"I'm glad you did."

He looked away from me then, and silence enveloped us for a time. Carlisle's restless thoughts wandered from one thing to another, and I let them be.

It was getting so comfortable to listen to his mind, and I was picking up on things more immediately, more thoroughly. An image of this or that, and how it related to something else he'd thought of six minutes ago. I could detect the difference between something he was just ruminating about, and something he was actually going to vocalize. There was an ease to it that seemed new. Perhaps familiarity had made me more attuned to him. Maybe it was just a relief to have all his thoughts free and undisguised.

"Promise me two things," I said to him after a while.

Broken out of his train of thought, he gave me a curious look.

"If I can."

"Promise you'll let me know if you need me on your side for anything from now on. Because I want to be on it."

A few moments. A nod.

"And promise that you won't use _Paradise Lost_ to make your thoughts private again. Ever."

A mischievous glint sparked in his eye.

"I can live with that," he said.

I groaned as a new mental murmur started up...

"_Paradise Regained, Book One, by John Milton:_

_I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung  
By one man's disobedience lost, now sing  
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,  
By one man's firm obedience fully tried  
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled  
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,  
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness..."_

"No! No more Milton! God, anything but that, please!"

Carlisle broke into laughter as the poetry faded, enjoying my sour expression far too much.

* * *

(...to be continued- soon!)

A/N: As you can see, I've partly addressed Sheperdgate (my name for the fallout resulting from Demetri's burning of the dog) here. There's more to it, which I'll get into another time. I've had second thoughts about a Twilighted thread for story discussion... it depends on how the next few chapters go.

Thank you for reading.


	21. Interlude, Pt III

Chapter 20 - Interlude, Pt. III

* * *

_Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:_  
_ England hath need of thee:..._  
_ Oh! raise us up, return to us again;_  
_ And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power._  
_ Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:_  
_ Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:_  
_ Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,_  
_ So didst thou travel on life's common way,_  
_ In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart_  
_ The lowliest duties on herself did lay._

- from _London, 1802_ by William Wordsworth

* * *

I followed Carlisle back into the cabin and watched as he lit an oil lamp and carefully hung it over the piano. The colors of the new painting, even in that little bit of light, stood out magnificently. Even human eyes would have noticed.

His mind was completely open again, and this time I knew it would last. Still, he couldn't help throwing in a line or two of _Paradise Revisited_, just to goad me a little.

I frowned when he did it; he grinned mischievously, and then turned his admiration to the Vrubel again.

I knew I should be more tolerant of his affinity for Milton. After all, he'd always admired the man, and had even met him once, an event Carlisle didn't remember anywhere near as well as he wanted to. John Milton had been a contemporary of his human life, and had more in common with Carlisle Cullen, 17th century Londoner, that my human self ever could have. And Milton's works, in their preoccupation with gods and demons, spoke of things that were intrinsic to Carlisle's outlook.

And evidently fallen angels, in particular seraphs, were a fascination of his. Aro had chosen his gift well.

"Are you going to hang it up?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Not here, though. I'll wait until we move, I think." _I should get a frame for it, though._

"So how come you never told me you sculpted this?" I asked, wandering to the limestone plaque, his own tribute to seraphic entities.

He paused with an indecisive expression. _At first I didn't think it appropriate. After that I just didn't think to mention it. I don't sculpt often._

"Why wouldn't it be 'appropriate'?" I asked with a raised brow. "Just what _theory _is it you've developed, Carlisle?"

He snorted slightly. "Well, first of all, it's not a _theory_. Aro's the only one who ever treated it as such." _He could turn the most casual of subjects into an intellectual decathlon._

"It can't be trivial, either," I countered. "Chelsea and Demetri gave me the distinct impression that you thought quite a bit about whatever inspired you to sculpt this. You even told me once that it's something you 'muse on.'"

"So it is," he replied. _Well, let's see... where to begin..._

With that, his mind started leafing through a multitude of subjects and memories, until it settled on something unexpected. "You know," he said speculatively, "I've always thought it ironic that vampires were called 'the cold ones' by some."

"I've never heard vampires called that."

"Several indigenous peoples call us that in their legends. And it isn't inappropriate, since we are, after all, cold to a human's touch... but to be one of us, as you know, is to know that we always burn."

Carlisle wandered over to me by the sculpture, contemplating its depiction of beings twisting in holy flames.

_Everything about our existence is fire; flames consume us in transformation, our thirst is scorching, __our passions burn with greater intensity than mortals can know, and the fire of the sun reveals to them what we are. And to die, if it is indeed death as other earth-bound creatures know it, we must be destroyed by fire. Eternity is our pyre, and on it we burn forever with something we don't understand... the burning ones._

He was utterly transfixed by the limestone forms, and had unconsciously withdrawn a pocketed hand, tracing the burning edge of a seraph's wing with his fingertip.

"I'd always wondered where our immortality came from," he murmured.

I watched Carlisle, suddenly uneasy. His amber gaze was a million miles away in that little sculpture, the subtext of his thoughts lost in profound questions that sentient beings naturally have about where they come from, why they're here. The trouble was, he was finding answers in those fiery figures, and I began to wonder if the centuries of Carlisle's deprived solitude had taken a toll of insanity on him.

Obviously he wasn't pulling these ideas out of thin air. One of his layers of thought spoke of inky, fragile scrolls written in ancient languages, of forgotten histories, scraps of buried legend and artifacts - things that spoke of years of sporadic, but intensive research. But, for God's sake, he was a vampire identifying with depictions of _angels_.

"You think... we're angels?" I asked.

"No," he replied quietly, "but we're like nothing else on earth. That first night I drank, and then lay there looking at the stars as I'd never seen them before... feeling my new body soothed and alive, even as my mind... my _self _returned... I realized that so many of the notions I had about our kind weren't true. I _wasn't _some mindless monster. So much of what I'd been taught was wrong, and I was filled with questions. I wanted to find out where we really came from." He glanced down, a rueful smile toying at the corner of his mouth. "I had no idea, at the time, how difficult that would prove to be. Perhaps it's fortunate that we live indefinitely, because even with millenia to spend looking for them, answers are elusive."

"I know time sometimes dragged, Carlisle, but you haven't exactly been around for _millenia_."

He chuckled. "Not yet. But even after I have been, I doubt I'll have found any answers. I've spoken with many vampires, and most of us know who sired us; I'm a rare exception to that. A few can even trace their lineage back through four or five sires, going back thousands of years, but not one of us remembers where it started... how we happened to begin with."

His brow furrowed as he gazed again at his limestone depiction of the Seraphim.

"We're immortal, apart from humanity, and yet our population is culled from humanity. We're like bastards who know our mortal mother, but not our eternal father, caught between spirit and flesh with no explanation. It had to come from somewhere... and so we look to legend." _Or at least some of us do. And why not? If we, as vampires, are facts that have faded into myth amongst humanity, then why couldn't our predecessors have faded into myth amongst ourselves?_

I swallowed apprehension long enough to attempt reasoning with him. "But the Seraphim? That doesn't make sense. Even if you believe they exist, the Seraphim are angels, the supposed bearers of God's eternal light. They're not earthly."

"Of course not," he replied, his gaze lighting up as he looked at me. "Have you heard of the Nephilim?"

I shook my head. "Should I have?"

"Not necessarily. There are many stories of fallen angels, and yet the Nephilim are largely unknown. They're hardly mentioned in canon, which is odd; that creatures with such extraordinary beginnings, with so much influence in the ancient world, are barely acknowledged... it implies deliberate omission."

"So they were fallen angels?"

"No. The Nephilim were the _offspring_ of angels who had coupled with mortal women they'd become enamored with."

"You're talking about what was alluded to Genesis," I said. "I _have _heard of this; the angels who walked the earth and took the daughters of men as wives."

"Yes... and some of those angels _were_ from the ranks of the Seraphim. Imagine what the progeny of such creatures might be like; how would their burning, venomous powers be manifested in their earthly descendants? What havoc might they wreak upon humanity?" His gaze fell from mine, and then returned to the sculpture. "The angels who fathered them were, of course, damned for their actions, and cast down. Their sons and daughters, the Nephilim, remained here, neither divine nor mortal. They were earth-born creatures, so they weren't cast down with their fathers, but because the nature of how they were begotten was forbidden, their souls were condemned."

I tried not to look as disquieted as I felt.

"But weren't the children of the angels giants?"

He smirked. "That's the interesting part. It's so commonly believed that they were giants because, over time, people have come to think that the word Nephilim itself meant 'giant,' but they're wrong. Translated from its Hebrew roots, original meanings of the word Nephilim differ, but 'fallen ones' is the most common. There is also 'those who cause to fall,' as well as 'unnaturally begotten men,' 'those who are feared,' and even 'those who are extraordinary.' That it was a reference to actual size is unlikely."

"Then where did the idea of their being giants come from?"

"Probably from a mistranslation of the Greek text. In it, the word 'gigantes' appears as the name for the Nephilim. On the surface it seems like a reference to size, but it's literal translation is actually 'earth-born.'"

I couldn't find words to respond with. After the conversation a few days ago with our visitors, I'd had an inkling as to what to expect from the story behind the sculpture, but somehow I thought it would be easily dismissed. I found myself having the urge to run off and scour Greek texts to see if he was right about the word 'gigantes.' And then Chelsea's words came back to me...

"_Careful. You've stumbled onto __one of Carlisle's pet theories. You'll end up hearing about more than you bargained for." _

A sage warning it seemed now, as Carlisle continued, obviously in his element.

"Mistranslation aside, it's still easy to see why the confusion of giants came about, because those who were in the presence of the Nephilim _felt_ inferior in every way. The children of the angels were tall, incandescent and pale, and so beautiful that it made mortals weep to look at them. They were incredibly strong and fast, with great intellects. Like Prometheus, they were even reputed to have brought to mankind the understanding of certain arts, crafts and sciences. They took on the mantles of kings and emperors. They lived for centuries and millenia, seemingly immortal.

"But they simply weren't built for this world, like those who'd sired them, and yet they were forever banned from the celestial home of their fathers at the same time. With no place they truly belonged, they became bitter, and chose to make their own terrible niche; dominion over mankind. It was their own form of rebellion- taking man's worship of God and directing it to themselves... and they became cruel to accomplish it. Their thirsts and passions made them terrifying; nothing could satisfy their appetites. They consumed all and demanded blood sacrifices, eventually abandoning all other forms of nourishment. The very lifeblood of humanity became the only thing that would satisfy the Nephilim." Carlisle's gaze fell. "They were an apocalyptic plague."

"How come I've never heard of them?" I asked.

"I couldn't say. In the realm of theology, the Nephilim have been shuffled into obscurity so deeply, it's as if they aren't a polite topic of conversation. They aren't easy to find, but scarce mentions of them come from diverse places; the Old Testament, apocryphal texts, Rabbinical writings, even Norse and Sumerian legends. "

"Is there anything about what happened to them?"

"Nothing definitive, unfortunately. What few scraps there are conflict with one another, but all of them are rooted in Noah's flood, which I find interesting, because none of the canonical stories about the need for the flood ever made sense to me. It was as if mankind was full of ordinary sinners one day, and then the next they'd become so corrupt that God saw fit to get rid of nearly all of them and start over. There's no real reason to it, unless you look at stories that never made it into canon."

"I take it you mean the Nephilim," I said.

"Among others, but yes, their story in particular. If apocryphal texts are to be considered part of biblical history, and there's no reason why they shouldn't – many of them are no less authentic than the chosen texts, once you look past prejudices of the time – it makes sense. It wasn't the wickedness of man that God sent the floods to cleanse, but the Nephilim, their progeny, and the world they had poisoned so deeply. They had insidiously violated God's plan for mankind. They had to be annihilated."

"So they _did_ die, then?"

"Probably not all of them; one account is so generous as to say that as many as ten percent of the Nephilim were spared, while others say there was a lone survivor, a king of Bashan, who was on the Ark. One version says that he simply hung onto it to survive, another that he was wedded to one of Noah's daughters. Others relate that all the Nephilim perished, while their spirits remained perpetually bound to Earth, restless and agonized- demons of a sort."

"Well, there's one hole in your story," I said with a smirk. "There's no point in sending a flood to kill creatures who can't drown."

"But what could they feed on? It was ten months before the waters receded enough for even bare mountaintops to peek out, to say nothing of the time it would have taken for living things to replenish their numbers. All the blood left in the world was on the ark, which was protected. So long, with no blood... I can't even imagine what that would do to our kind... except... perhaps we turned on each other, destroyed by madness."

I had to draw the line. He was no longer saying _the Nephilim_, but "we" and "our kind."

"Let me get this straight. You're honestly proposing that vampires are the descendants of an ancient race of half-angels who survived Noah's flood?" No wonder Aro spent decades arguing with him about this.

"No," he said, softening. "No matter how compelling I find this to be, it's just a muse. Aro was the one who treated it like a theory; he was unwittingly more responsible for its development than I ever was. I admit, it _was_ entertaining to keep the discussion going, but these hammered-together bits of legend aren't what I believe. There are dozens of mythologies from all over the world that one could glean vampire origins from. The story of the Nephilim is just one of them."

"What do you believe, then?"

"When it comes to the origin and fate of our kind?"

I nodded.

"Nothing specific... except-" he stopped short, his ocher gaze falling before lifting cautiously again to mine. _That our souls are truly damned. _

The look on my face must have been one of sheer stupefaction. "I can't believe it. You'd take that entire mythology and throw it out except- oh, that part about eternal damnation. Let's keep that one," I half-snorted, half-chuckled. "How can you say that? You have to commit some pretty horrendous sins to be _damned._"

"True, but-"

"You can't really believe that."

_How can I not believe it?_ "Edward, I don't presume to separate my fate from that of the rest of our kind," he said. "My humanity was taken away when I was changed, just like the rest of them; there's no getting it back. I was born into this life consumed by the same lust for blood, violence and death, and when you look around, you simply can't deny that we aren't built for this world. We can't even let our existences be known of without creating havoc. It doesn't matter what story one digs up to explain it, it's obvious that what we are is fundamentally _wrong_. It's in everything we do. We're like parasites in our feeding habits-"

"Oh, come on," I interrupted, desperate for something in all this bleakness to argue with. "Everything is a parasite; all living things in this world need to consume _other_ living things to sustain themselves."

"Not the way we do it," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "We come from humanity, we live among them, wear their clothes, enjoy their music, writing, achievements- and then _prey_ on them, not because we have to, but because it brings us ecstasy. That's evil if ever there was any!"

I was somewhat taken aback. He was usually so reflective – even placid – during discussions about our nature and role in this world. But not now. I'd never seen outbursts like this from him- not even in his memories. The depth of his passion on the subject obviously wasn't something he let out often. Maybe he never had at all. It might have felt like a privilege to be let into it if it wasn't for what he was saying.

"I've seen it- and last night, _you_ saw it in Demetri," he seethed, "the sadistic pleasure we take in treating our mother race as inferior playthings! And do you know there are some among us who barely take pleasure in it anymore, but like addicts they still drink away human life, regardless of how much it troubles them? Isolated, tortured creatures suffering under the burden of eternity, each year they endure as meaningless as the one before-"

"Stop it," I ground out, though it sounded more like a plea. "You keep saying 'we,' but you don't do any of those things, and I _know_ you don't think like the rest of them. You respect humanity. For God's sake, you nurture human beings! You can't hold yourself accountable for what other-"

"I don't! But just _being_ one of us is a damnable fall from grace. Don't you see-"

"Okay, fine! I get it!" I yelled. "We're nothing but miserable wretches bound for hell whether we resist temptation or not. That's just great, Carlisle! Thanks for bringing me on board."

With that I stalked back out to the porch, slamming the door behind me. Instantly the doorframe and glass cracked, even though it didn't feel like I'd exerted any strength at all. Just a minor display of temper...

_Not built for this world._

Except that wasn't his thought this time, but an echo in my own brain.

I was too agitated, in turmoil, to listen to his thoughts. My fists clenched handfuls of hair, pulling my chin to my chest as I paced. As if to twist the knife, my ever-present thirst gnawed with fresh vigor. Out of sheer habit I froze in place, unwilling to take another step lest it be the one that launched me to where I should never, ever go.

But why? What was the point if I was damned anyway?

No, no! Carlisle just couldn't be right, at least not as far as his own fate was concerned. And not mine. Okay... so we'd been yanked into a species of vicious killers. But not him. And not me... almost, but still not me, either. There had to be a reason for all this self-deprivation and effort. We weren't beyond hope, were we?

And it _could_ be done. I could control myself. I could exist here without being an offense to God and nature.

_What about the offense you are to mankind? _an inner voice taunted, whispering under burn that fueled my thirst._ Or were you just pretending you were going to kill Franz last night?_

_No,_ I argued. _I can do better. I _will_. Maybe I should just remain isolated; keep away from them. How long did Carlisle exile himself?_

Even after learning to dull his thirst with the blood of animals, he'd stayed away from humans for a long while. He remembered all too well the inexorable draw of their scent. There were few moments in his existence filled with more trepidation than when he'd finally allowed himself near a pair of travelers camping out for the night... that first, halting breath with human scent in the mix.

But what good did it do to be so cautious? To deprive himself so horribly? He thought he was going to hell anyway, if death ever truly claimed him.

I must have been out there for at least fifteen minutes, stewing and arguing with myself, while Carlisle let me be. Finally, though, he stirred in the cabin, putting out the lamp. The door was broken, of course, so when he turned the warped handle, it didn't budge. I reached out and yanked it open, figuring I may as well spare him having to be the one to break it the rest of the way, since it was my fault. I turned away without looking at him, my grip settling on the porch rail. He walked over splintered bits of doorframe, cautiously coming to my side.

"I'll fix it," I grumbled.

_I know. Don't berate yourself, please. Four months here, now, and that's the first thing you've broken._

"Great. A new record."

He was silent for a time, and we both ended up at each others side at the rail, gazing out at the night sky. It was as clear as could be. Still so many stars to my eyes... and behind tangled, naked branches, a full moon had risen in the southwest. I couldn't enjoy it, beautiful as it was. All I could think was why couldn't just one thing be simple? Just one.

"I'm sorry, Edward," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you. I try not to think about these things." _There's more than one reason I don't often dwell on eternity and all the questions that surround our fate._ _Contemplating it invariably makes me despondent, sometimes even angry. _

I shook my head. "I think you're wrong. It can't be like that. We can't be lost already, not if we haven't done anything wrong. We didn't ask for this. It can't be that unfair."

_Maybe, maybe not. I just don't know. But our race is made up of unearthly murderers, plain and simple. _

"But you said yourself most of us don't even know we can live without killing human beings. It's in our nature to do it. How can we be blamed for doing what we were meant for?"

"I don't think we were _meant _to be to begin with. And there are those of us who _do_ know they don't need human blood, who feel the humanity buried within them, but they kill anyway-"

"For the pleasure of it," I finished. "Okay, so write them off to hell, but why us, too? Why those who know better and follow our consciences, and not our bloodlust? Doesn't that count for something?"

"I hope so," he conceded. "And I've probably made my outlook sound more bleak than it really is. After all, where there's damnation there is also redemption. Most philosophies and religions teach that there are no irredeemable sinners. There's forgiveness to be found for all those who come to terms with their wrongdoings and do what they can to correct them."

"Is that why you put yourself through all that agony to be a doctor?" I smirked, glancing at him. "Buying your ticket to heaven?"

He chuckled, meeting my gaze. "Well, I wouldn't put it _that _way."

"But it's true, isn't it? You're fostering hope for redemption."

He looked away from me, his thoughts a plethora of memories.

"In a way," he said after a moment. "I don't presume to hope for myself, or for our kind. Not really. Vampires are blatantly unrepentant. There are too few of us trying to rise above our natures..." he shook his head as if in a trance. "But when I work, when I help people, I feel like, in a way, I'm making small payments towards the huge debt of life that we owe. And on a personal level, it brings me meaning and purpose. Doing well at it is the closest thing to fulfillment I've ever experienced..." _and sometimes I feel like I'm taking a step, on behalf of our kind, towards being something better than we are. _

"Which doesn't make sense," he said. "I could live and work for three thousand years, and it still wouldn't come close to making up for the life we've taken – and still take – every day. And what I do won't convince the others to stop feeding on human blood. In the end, I only do it because it's satisfying to me, not because it promises redemption for myself or others of our kind."

"But you do have hope."

"I feel it sometimes, and then I move my thoughts onto something else before rational thinking has a chance to quash that hope."

I started laughing, which was egged on by his puzzled expression.

_What? What did I say?_

"Nothing," I chuckled. "It's just that I'm wondering if I shouldn't have gone with them. Gothic castles full of bloodsucking demons would be cheerier than you are right now."

_Sorry. _Carlisle grimaced. _This has all really upset you, hasn't it?_

I shrugged as the last bitter laugh faded, staring over the rail at bushy weeds growing below the porch.

_I shouldn't have gone into all that. With his gift, it's too easy to forget how young he is. _

"Okay, so I'm not two hundred eighty years old, but I'm not two, either. Isn't eighteen old enough to handle subjects like eternity and redemption?"

_Yet another thing I haven't exactly relished the prospect of discussing... _"It's not the topic, or your intellectual ability to come to terms with it that's related to your age," he said carefully. "It's your emotional reaction to it. You'll always be seventeen, Edward."

"Physically, yeah. I know, I get it. I'm frozen. But I can still learn."

He nodded. "You can learn, you can gain wisdom... but emotionally you're as frozen as your body."

My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

_I don't know how to put this without unintentionally offending you._

"Give it a try."

He still hesitated before speaking, which gave me a good preview of what he was about to say, and he was right; I didn't like it one bit – not when it was just a thought, and especially not when he actually voiced it.

"Emotional maturity is more a product of age than experience," he said, his gaze sliding to mine carefully. "It's physiological, not just psychic, and one of the curiosities of our kind is that the hormonal development that accompanies age stops progressing with the rest of our bodies. I will always be twenty-three – emotionally speaking, just on this side of adulthood. You, however, were changed when your hormones were just settling out of pubescence." He paused, choosing his next words. "Boys your age tend to be... reactionary. You get upset with little provocation."

My jaw clenched as I fought not to be 'reactionary.'

"Well, the good news just keeps coming," I said tightly.

It had been such a strange night. Here I'd thought it was going to be better when the Volturi left, but after these conversations I just felt more hopeless, the resonating thirst inside me aching more acutely, a reminder of its power over me, over every aspect of my existence. And maybe Carlisle was right about my disposition, because that's when I was struck with an idea. A dangerous, rebellious idea.

Ignoring his apologetic thoughts, I turned to him; he recognized the determination in my posture, and apprehensive suspicion filled his mind.

"Yesterday morning you said you trusted me."

"I do," he replied cautiously.

"May I borrow the Peerless for a few hours?" I asked.

"Rig-?"

"Right now."

This was it. The big test. Every legitimate question and its potential outcome ran through his worried head. But he knew better than to ask. This was an exercise in trust. He'd give it to me or he wouldn't.

Finally, he nodded. _You know where the keys are._

* * *

(to be continued...)

* * *

A/N: Well, folks, there you go. The story behind Carlisle's sculpture.

Long ago, I stumbled upon the tale of the Nephilim while researching a different aspect of MLY, and it caught my imagination right away as a potential vampire origin myth. I've spent a lot of time researching it since, and became convinced it was a subject that Carlisle, with his background, scholarly ways, and preoccupation with damnation and redemption, might have latched onto. I also discovered that there are other people who've made the same connection I did between the Nephilim and vampires. However, research or not, I admit that I've pulled a Dan Brown here. This is for fun. If you're a theologian or just want to debate/discuss, I welcome it.

To that end, I've posted a MLY discussion thread on Twilighted. I don't expect it to be a really hoppin' place, but for those of you who want to discuss MLY and any of the topics within, you are welcome to drop in. I'll be vigilant about checking it and replying frequently. I'll also be posting outtakes in the thread, too. The one I'm starting with is an extended, much more revealing version of the conversation Carlisle had with Chelsea and Santiago the night Edward was out hunting with the other two. It's up now:

http : / / www (dot) twilighted (dot) net / forum / view topic (dot) php ? f= 17&t = 16839

These last couple chapters were especially fun (and challenging) for me. In the Twilight books and countless fics, we've seen references to long, all-night conversations Edward and Carlisle used to have. Here, we actually get one of them.

Yeah... it was a lot of talking. I hope you're looking forward to action, because the next two chapters will have plenty of it.

Thank you for reading.


	22. There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt VI

Chapter 21 – There is No God, the Wicked Saith, Pt. VI

"_There is no God," the wicked saith,_

"_And truly it's a blessing_

_For what He might have done with us_

_It's only better guessing."_

_But almost everyone, when age_

_Disease or sorrows strike him_

_Inclines to think there is a God,_

_Or something very like him._

_- from There is No God, the Wicked Saith_ by Arthur Hugh Clough

* * *

Speed was becoming one of my favorite things. I relished letting go during a hunt, or even just for the sheer pleasure of running, feeling my body work with such effortless precision. It was a giddy thing to be on one side of a vast valley, scanning the other side for a spot I liked best, knowing I could be there in thirty seconds. It felt like freedom.

So did this, even if it was slower than running. For the first time in a long time, I was driving, beholden to nothing. Wheels humming smoothly on pavement, shifting to high third gear, the wind in my hair and stars above.

Well, it _almost_ felt like freedom. No matter what, come sunrise, I had to be away from people. The skies were clear.

I mostly kept the headlamps off to avoid attracting insects that would batter the glass. At this hour there was hardly anyone on the roads, but every once a while someone would head my way; I would hear their engine in plenty of time to turn the lights on and slow down, mindful of not drawing too much attention. Two passing drivers still thought it was odd that I had the top down, as cold as it was.

Carlisle almost never drove with the top down, and his Peerless 56 wasn't the fastest thing, but it was luxurious, powerful, and the suspension was better than most. It was too big, though. What could have possessed him to buy a six passenger touring car, I didn't know. I wondered if he'd ever tried a coupe.

That's when it occurred to me that maybe I should get a car of my own. I'd never had one before. My father's most recent auto had been a Pierce-Arrow, which was in Chicago. I could get it anytime, but I wasn't sure I wanted to drive around in a memory, and there were so many good ones coming out these days... maybe I'd even go European.

Something to think about, anyway.

I went as fast as the Peerless could without over-stressing the engine; it was well past four in the morning, and I had be finished by sunrise. Fortunately, the thirty-odd miles went by quickly, and while I had two tasks, I could accomplish both at one destination.

When I reached the outskirts of Milwaukee, I pulled over and put the top up. After the spectacle I'd created in that busy park on Saturday, the less chance of someone recognizing me, the better. I got back behind the wheel, my jaw clenched as the thirst scraped away inside, inflamed by the thought of what I was about to do.

This was a bad idea.

* * *

By the time I scaled the roof of St. Mary's Hospital, I'd been holding my breath for seven minutes. The lake was just barely churning with a morning breeze, and I longed to take a whiff, but resisted for the time being, taking in the rest of my surroundings.

Milwaukee was still dark and subdued, but enough of its occupants had already roused from slumber, preparing for the opening of shops and eating early breakfasts... carts and automobiles crawled sparsely along the streets below. I huddled, out of sight, behind the steepled portico above the main entrance.

Listening. Waiting.

Most of the patients were still asleep, but St. Mary's was a hum of thoughts and quiet activity. I knew if I'd taken a breath, along with the the scents of the lake, I'd get a noseful of antiseptic and cotton, scrambled eggs, oatmeal, coffee... I concentrated on one thought pattern after another, skipping over the ones that were dreaming...

Damn. I'd thought this would be the one place I could count on finding a bleeding human. But, no. Just my luck, there wasn't an open wound in the entire hospital. It didn't even sound like they'd admitted any new patients in the last few hours.

There was one who they'd admitted last Saturday, though, and his thoughts weren't difficult to find, even if they weren't conscious. Aaron Barnes was in the last stages of a dream that took place right there in St. Mary's. His brother was at his bedside, talking about butterscotch ice cream as if it was extremely important. Aaron didn't know why the hell his brother would want to talk about that, and even stranger, his brother appeared completely unaware of the doctor in their presence. The doctor had strange eyes, and his skin was almost as white as his lab coat. Aaron knew this doctor somehow, but sworn he'd never seen him in a doctor's clothing-

_... get this over with. Probably going to have to fix that stove myself if I expect to cook a decent meal in the near future..._

The mental grumbling diverted my attention; I peeked over the edge of the portico and saw a couple starting up the rose-bordered path to the entrance. They were just dressed enough to be decent in public; the woman's hair was merely tied back, and they didn't have coats on. They probably didn't live far away.

One of the man's hands was tightly wrapped in a scrap of fabric that was half-soaked in blood. The woman cradled it in both of hers, her pace determined, clearly the impetus of their motion.

"...just a cut, Justine. It'll heal just fine on its own."

"It's practically down to the bone. It needs to be stitched up."

"I can do it."

"Like you did when you sliced your leg? I don't think so."

He didn't argue after that, remembering the infection that had set in the last time he'd tried doctoring himself, just after an accident with a whittling blade.

But his hand had my full attention from the moment my eyes locked onto it. My body seemed to vibrate at the sight of that blood, begging to breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut, freezing into stillness, but then a growl started deep in my chest, trying to get out and force me to take a breath. I grimaced with the effort it took to choke it off, trying desperately to ignore one sound that drummed in my ears, louder and louder. Wet, thumping, vital... the man's heart, beating away in steady, calm rhythm.

_You have to do it, _I told myself. _This is what you came for. It might be your only chance before sunrise. Open your eyes. _

So I did, my gaze instantly homing in on that reddening, wet piece of fabric. In the next moment I braced myself, gripping the inside edge of the portico, and gave in to the crying need to breathe. Just a tiny bit of blood-scented air...

As soon as I began that cautious inhale, my lungs reflexively expanded to full capacity, beyond my control; my throat was set aflame and I tried to hold still, but it was no good. It wasn't much blood, but the air was saturated with its perfume. My vision pulsed red with every heartbeat connected to that most sublime, vital scent, and I flinched violently with the need to move, my grip digging into concrete that crumbled to my feet. I had to get down there to what was mine. I _needed_ it.

_No. No. No._

It's all I could think past the insane lust that seized me. Every nerve ending of my body felt magnetically attuned to the man who'd just reached the porch with his wife. It would be so easy. All I'd have to do is drop down - one move and the woman's neck would be snapped, leaving me free to snatch the bleeding vessel of what I craved and pull him out of sight. He wouldn't even have time to be alarmed... it was dark enough to human eyes that no one inside the hospital entrance would see. I could take the woman, too, actually. It would be over with within a mere five seconds.

But I didn't budge from that spot on the roof. Once I managed to stop writhing, I took another breath, even though it turned the fire of thirst into an inferno. I ripped my vision from the man's hand to both their faces, trying to remind myself that I'd had a plan for this moment, that I needed to hear their thoughts right now. It was impossible to make out what I was hearing- there were words there in their minds, but it was like trying to hear what someone was saying over the sound of a roaring waterfall. And that roar was my thirst, demanding, begging, pleading... _why wouldn't I do this? Why was I depriving myself?_

Still clutching the edge of the crumbling portico, I allowed myself one weakness and buried my face in my arms to block some of the scent.

_Get inside, get inside already! _I silently urged the unsuspecting humans. Why did they have to be so damn slow? I should've waited until they were closer to the entrance before breathing.

I pushed away from the portico and rolled flat on my back, trying to focus on the sky through my crimson-soaked vision. But I kept breathing no matter how much it fueled the thirst, managing by some miracle to keep a tenuous hold to onto tiny threads of control.

The scent diminished noticeably as they went inside, and as soon as that happened I had to coil my muscles tight again, clenching my eyes shut with the struggle not to move.

_It's getting away! Don't let it..._

But I _had_ to let it get away, and I had to keep breathing no matter how much it hurt. The thirst constricted into aching lashes inside, similar to what I'd felt on that field with Demetri and Fletcher. Oddly enough, I welcomed it in a way - it meant my body was starting to come to grips with the fact that it wouldn't be infused with what it wanted most. What a strange thing it was, to find hope in such immense pain. Still, I was intensely aware of the exact location of that man in the hospital beneath me; aware of the presence of every source of human blood in that building, for that matter... I didn't dare move.

After seven minutes, I opened my eyes, still locking down my movements except for my lungs... in... out... in... out... The crimson in my vision began slowly seeping away.

At twenty two minutes, breathing had become less torturous. The perfume of fresh blood was growing faint, mixing with iodine and cotton, but the fainter it got, the more my senses strained to seek it out, trying to detect it elsewhere.

At thirty-one minutes, I was finally able to pay attention to other scents... Lake Michigan, the roses around St. Mary's, the breakfast being cooked inside... I couldn't help thinking that, once upon a time, the smell of that stuff might have been appetizing, not that of the people preparing it.

At forty-three minutes, the heartbeats I could hear weren't beckoning any more than they usually did when Carlisle and I were in Milwaukee. Thank God for all that practice in restraint. Without it, there would have been people killed at St. Mary's this morning- probably more than the two I'd set my sights on.

And still, I waited. I wouldn't risk it until I was under firm control.

It was a little while later when I tested my movement, letting all my muscles retract, and felt that I alone, and not any thirst, had mastery over my body. I was breathing easy, my vision normal... still, I was cautious as I stood at last, dusting off my clothes.

I sighed deeply, half in relief, half mourning that the thirst hadn't gone away completely, nor would it ever. But I'd done it. I'd resisted the scent of fresh, flowing blood on my own. No one had to rescue my potential victims or fight me off of them; Carlisle hadn't been there to hold my hand. The only damage done was a couple of missing chunks of concrete from St. Mary's portico.

But I'd been up on that roof for longer than an hour and a half. The sky had lightened considerably since my fit of thirst had begun; it looked like I only had fifteen minutes to get into that hospital and then back to the car before sunrise.

It didn't sound like Aaron Barnes was dreaming anymore, but he must not have been awake, either. His thoughts were muted; when I'd heard them before, I could tell they were coming from near the back of the first floor. A quick survey of the grounds and the thoughts of the hospital's inhabitants told me it was safe to hop down from the roof, which I did and then ducked under the awning a rear staff entrance. I wouldn't have to be too sneaky; the entrance was unlocked and I could hear that there wasn't anyone on the other side of the door who would observe me.

As I slipped in, I couldn't help wondering if I had enough time. Maybe I should do this another day.

No, better to get it over with now. It wouldn't take long; besides, I didn't plan on putting myself anywhere near bleeding humans again for some time. I wasn't a masochist.

* * *

Aaron had been restless, even in his sleep. He'd obviously been twisting - or trying to twist, his legs akimbo in a gnarled bedsheet. But there's no way he could have turned over - his left arm was slung in a contraption that was mounted to the side of the bed, keeping it suspended and still so his ravaged ligaments could heal undisturbed. His cast went well up over his shoulder to his neck, and stretched down leaving only his fingertips uncovered. His gown was scrunched up, half above his waist, leaving him partially exposed, and he looked like a pale shadow of the gregarious athlete I'd met only days ago.

He wasn't unattended to, at least, and had some privacy. His bed was roomy and secluded by curtains, and his nearest neighbor was four beds away, snoring. A half-empty pitcher of warm iced tea sat on the table next to his bed, along with a crumb-strewn plate with half a cookie on it, cards, letters, a bowl of butterscotch candies, a comb, flowers, and the sports page from yesterday's newspaper. I listened through the small hubbub of active mental voices in the hospital until I detected the head nurse who'd just come on duty, examining the night's charts. Her vision swam into my mind; Aaron had last been checked on two hours ago; he must have done all his twisting since then.

His dream earlier had puzzled me. Why would Carlisle be in his dreams, let alone make him uneasy? I could understand Aaron's subconscious dwelling on those connected with what had happened to him Saturday, but nightmares about me, about the one who'd actually injured him so heinously, would have made more sense. Then again, the human dreams I'd heard rarely made sense.

Now, however, he was in the final stages of waking up. His heartbeat was picking up, eyelids twitching. He was aware of where he was, but reluctant to face it.

_No one sounds awake... I've only been asleep for a couple hours probably... so tired... what I wouldn't give to be able to sleep for a whole night again... Clyde can really saw logs... I could sleep through that if only I could just stop itching... ignore it... at least I don't have to pee again... nice to be without the stinking bedpan for once... try to go back to sleep... maybe if I count sheep? God, that's stupid. Who came up with that anyway? Counting sheep... maybe I'll just count Clyde's snores... ignore it... ignore it... DAMN MY BACK ITCHES... I could probably reach it IF I COULD USE MY STUPID ARM..._

He wriggled, hitching his good shoulder up and down to rub against the bed; at the same time, he noticed a draft around his crotch, and reached down with his good arm to tug his gown into place, then went still with his eyes resolutely shut, clinging to a futile hope of falling back to sleep.

Suddenly I felt obnoxious for even being there. I should leave... just leave him alone. I was on the verge of turning away, but then his eyes popped open, his gaze fixed right on me_. _

I stayed still, looking through his vision; there weren't any windows in this part of St. Mary's and only a few lights on further down the ward. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the low light, and a little longer for his brain to catch up to what he was seeing.

_I must still be dreaming, but... seems pretty real. Is that...? I think that's Masen. What's he doing here?_

I could still get away. To his eyes it would be as if I'd vanished into thin air like a phantom; he'd think he was seeing things. At this point, though, the thought of leaving smacked of cowardice.

"Sorry to wake you up," I said quietly. "I would have come during visiting hours if I could, but... there's stuff I've got to do during the day that I can't get away from."

I was painfully aware of how lame that sounded, but he was too groggy to notice.

"What time is it?" he croaked.

"About six thirty."

_Yep, only a few hours of sleep again. Jeez, I'm a mess..._

He shifted, trying not to tweak his bad shoulder, but wasn't completely successful. He did manage to sit up a little, but sharp pain radiated through the distressed joint, shooting down the rest of his arm, making him flinch. My jaw clenched, guilt suffusing me at seeing him in that pain, unable to even move freely.

Aaron managed to get at a glass with a little of the warm iced tea in it and take a sip. Still, he was wondering what I was doing here. With his brain churning into full cognizance, I knew I'd better make this quick. I was running out of time, and he was going to start asking questions.

"I won't bother you again after this," I said. "I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am for what happened during the game."

He blinked away mental fuzz, trying to focus on me instead of his itchy back, and took another drink of tea- just enough to wet his throat, because it didn't taste good anymore.

_Yeah, it's him... and he's here to apologize... wow, I guess maybe Harry was right about me not remembering... doesn't make sense, though... how could he throw that fast... _

"It was just a bad catch," he ventured, setting the glass down.

I resisted a bitter chuckle. It was a miraculous catch, actually.

"It wasn't your fault. I threw that ball way too hard. I didn't mean to, but that doesn't excuse it. I'm... more sorry than I can say."

He pondered that, brows furrowed, but at the same time he just couldn't ignore his back anymore. With a small grunt of frustration, he twisted his right arm behind him, scrabbling around with fingertips that wouldn't quite reach.

Good God, this was ridiculous. For a moment I was almost glad not to be human. I couldn't remember what an itch felt like, but the notion of being driven to such distraction by a minuscule patch of irritated nerve endings...

"Want some help?"

He shook his head, straining, grimacing... _I can get it, I can get it... shit. I can't get it. How long 'til one of the sisters comes by? Breakfast should be soon, maybe the orderly who brings it would... damn it... reach, reach... OW! _

He'd tweaked his shoulder again.

"I don't mind, really," I re-offered.

Giving up, he stopped trying to reach the unreachable, his sandy-haired head hung low.

"Could you please just scratch my back a little? There's these one or two spots I can't get at. Been driving me nuts."

Hoping I wouldn't regret this, I picked up the wooden comb on the table while he leaned forward as much as he could, gingerly using his good hand to pull the gown up his back. I'd already crippled his arm; the last thing he needed was for me to lodge a comb in his spine. Using extreme caution, I rested the teeth on his skin, right where one of the itches was, and started scraping as delicately as I could. After a few moments, though, he twitched as if trying to get more pressure.

_Ugh, that tickles... making it worse... I don't wanna order him around, but if only he'd... just a little more... ahhhhh..._

He gurgled and went limp as relief washed through his body. I was pressing firmly enough now that the comb left white lines on his back where I scraped, but they quickly colored again as velvety blood rose alluringly to the surface.

Being around him hadn't agitated my thirst- not until then. Mindful to keep the pressure and motion steady, I averted my eyes and stopped breathing for the duration; problem solved. Or at least as solved as it ever would be, as the amplified burn in my throat reminded me.

I kept it up for three solid minutes, listening to his thoughts. There wasn't much to hear, almost as if he'd gone dumb from pleasure, but every once in a while something would pop up- usually a wishful direction or unthinking gratitude... _more there... ahhhh... just a little over that way... so much better than how Mom does it... it's like he just knows..._

I was oddly satisfied when I finished, letting myself breathe again. A backscratch was in no way compensation for his mangled arm, but knowing I'd provided a little comfort Aaron wouldn't have had otherwise... it was good. I was starting to get an inkling of why Carlisle went through so much to be a doctor.

I propped his pillows back up for him, which he slumped against bonelessly, using the back of his hand to wipe drool from the corner of his mouth. He was so utterly relaxed, he thought he might have a decent chance of getting back to sleep.

"Thanks a million," he muttered. "So much better."

"It's the least I could do."

His grayish eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness, were still sleepy as he examined me.

"So you really did it, huh? You can throw that fast?"

"Um, yeah. I try not to, though. Sometimes I guess it just gets away from me."

_That's unbelievable. If he can play like that, why isn't he in the majors? Never mind. He'd probably kill those guys._

"I guess you're in a league of your own," he finally murmured, mulling over possible reasons for my freakish strength. "So what's your trick?"

"There's no trick. It's just the way I am. They say its some kind of hormone imbalance."

_Lucky bastard. I wonder if it runs in the family. _"Is your brother like you?"

"No," I lied. There was no need to sully Carlisle's name.

"He must be a pretty good doctor. I don't remember much of what he did, but Harry says he's the one who got me here in one piece. Thank him for me?"

"Sure."

"I should thank you, too - I'm guessing it's you who's paying the hospital. My folks were surprised."

"Don't thank me for that. You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me."

_He really is beating himself up over this, isn't he?_

"You didn't mean to do it," he said through a yawn.

I wanted to say something about all the injury had cost him... his dream of playing pro ball gone forever... but couldn't. That was only something I'd heard about in thoughts. And really, what was the point? He didn't seem to be mourning the loss, at least not at the moment. What _was_ preoccupying his sleepy brain, unfortunately, were all the strange things about me that were starting to add up to a sort of _other_ness. The hue of my eyes and skin, how cold I'd felt when he swamped me with the others after my homerun, the freakish agility and strength... and I must have snuck in here, he knew. There was no way the nuns would've let me visit at this hour.

"I should get going," I said, withdrawing a piece of notepaper from my pocket, which I deposited on the table, right next to the vase of flowers. "I'm going away to school soon, but I'm not sure of my new address yet. This is contact information for the partner running my family's law firm; he'll know how to get a hold of me. If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate get in touch."

His first inclination was to insist it wasn't necessary, but stopped himself. He could tell it was important to me.

"Sure thing," he said with a sleepy smirk. "I'll holler next time I need a backscratch."

* * *

I cursed as I slipped out the back; I'd taken too long. The sun was up and the city was starting to bustle.

I wasn't too worried; Carlisle had had to make his way through sunlight around people before. Sometimes he had to find a place to hide for the day, but most of the time he was able to stick to shadowy areas and places he wouldn't be seen. It was just a hassle, and a very risky one.

He was usually more prepared; I didn't have a hat, scarf, coat, or gloves, but at least the sun was so low that there were plenty of long shadows around. I flipped up the collar of my jacket, shoved my hands deep in my pockets and kept my head down, moving quickly when no one was around to pay attention, pausing in shadows when there was, and mostly stuck to alleys. It took ten minutes to get to the Peerless, which was waiting, top up, in the shadow of two towering oak trees on the edge of a mostly uninhabited park.

I watched my speed on the way back, still thinking it best not to attract attention since the county road was now busy. It was a drag to go so slow, but it gave me time to think. I felt strangely empty... maybe I'd expected too much. I thought I'd feel some sort of happiness at knowing I could resist blood if I had to. But the knowledge was just sort of... there.

It made me wonder what I could do, though. Maybe I could participate in human society to some extent. Maybe going to school didn't have to be a lie, but reality. Carlisle had attended universities all over, and had even done a teaching stint or two. My mind turned over the many ways it could be accomplished... of course, I'd have to talk to Carlisle, find out what his plans were. Something to consider, anyway.

At least I knew Aaron Barnes was okay; he obviously wasn't going to be daunted by a crippled arm. That actually boosted my spirits more than knowing I'd turned away from fresh human blood.

* * *

Carlisle resisted rushing out to the porch when I pulled up, and it took a great deal of effort for him. I chuckled, switching off the engine before turning the key to cut the power, and then strode into the cabin quickly; no need to drag out his suspense.

"Milwaukee?" he asked from his desk, smelling the city all over me. There was a stack of medical journals and real estate brochures in front of him.

A minute later he was still seated behind the desk, a little disbelieving.

"You scratched his back?"

"With a comb." I specified before he had a chance to tense up over the idea of my doing something that would call attention to the temperature of my skin.

He was vocally speechless, though his thoughts raced to a bunch of different things at once, like how foolish he felt to have been entertaining his fears, even as briefly as he had, especially after the sun had risen and I wasn't back yet. He was imagining what I'd told him about... how I'd manage to resist... how I'd gotten safely out of the city despite the sunlight, never having tried it before...

"You did it," he finally said, pride in his gaze. _You have control over your thirst._

And I grinned, suddenly flooded by what had been missing earlier - the joy of my accomplishment.

* * *

We ended up spending the morning by the empty fireplace with the periodicals he'd had on his desk.

Carlisle was starting to think of going back to work, moving on to someplace new. He'd been in larger hospitals for about sixteen years, and was leaning towards a change of pace. A small town facility, perhaps one that would be in need of a single doctor to man the night shift.

"I was thinking... maybe not for a year or two... I mean, I think I should build up my tolerance more," I said, "but I was thinking about maybe going to school."

His smile at that, even as reserved as it was, would have lit up an abyss.

_We could stay in the lakes region if you like, _he said silently. "Do you want to be close to Chicago?"

"If it's no trouble."

_Not at all. Any preferences?_

I did miss living on the shores. "How about something less inland?"

"Sounds good."

Later, with my thirst still more agitated than usual, I asked if we could go hunting that night. He bent his gaze down to a J.A.M.A. article, smiling a touch wistfully.

_I don't think you need me tagging along anymore for that. Just go when you're thirsty. _

"What if I want company?"

"Alright."

* * *

We spent the next two days and nights mostly out of the cabin. We took the spruce that had been felled during that first attempt to play ball with with Volturi and broke it up into a stockpile of kindling for whoever rented the cabin next. We revisited the lake we'd wrestled on in January and took a swim in its now unfrozen, sun-dappled waters, and played a nighttime game of catch with each of us on opposite sides of a rocky valley.

By Friday morning we'd settled back into the cabin. Feeling unusually at peace, I decided to play Satie's _Gymnopedies. _They were boring to play, but enchanting to listen to. It was easy to forget how unoccupied my fingers were and drift off into the spare music.

Carlisle's mind, however, was restless and full of optimistic plans, both large and small. He gazed out at the gray morning, calculating how long it would take for the cloud cover to pass. The patch over the region was dense enough, but held no precipitation, and would be gone by sunset. It was going to be clear for the rest of the weekend, so this would be the only safe time to head into town for several days.

"I think I'm going into the city, find a frame for that painting," he said. _Drop off our letters while I'm at it, maybe stop by some realtors, see what they know about available property in the Ashland area. _

Since our conversation the other day, we'd been leaning towards that spot. Just a few hundred miles north, nestled along one of the southernmost shores of Lake Superior, Ashland was a small shipping town that just happened to be opening up a tiny hospital soon. They'd be in the market for a young MD willing to take the night shift. There would be secluded rural residences to be bought. Hunting areas were prime; some we were already familiar with. Chicago was a few hours' run away, and Duluth was there for more immediate wants. There was even a fledgling university.

He didn't ask me to go along to Milwaukee, knowing (without my having to say it) that I was taking a break from agitating my thirst.

So I just kept playing as he donned a hat and jacket and left, looking forward to spending the day planning our near future.

Over the last couple days, he'd been so much more content than I'd ever seen him, even in his memories.

It wasn't that he'd been constantly miserable before; Carlisle had no trouble taking pleasure in simple things... a beautiful vista or piece of music, a new invention, an interesting book or article, going to a new place. Of course there was his work, his greatest source of satisfaction, and not just the doctoring itself. In my human memories of St. Luke's was a recollection of him confessing that he got attached to his patients sometimes, and now I knew just how true that was. There were several human beings he'd become fond of through his work - the most recent before my mother and me had been a girl with a broken leg several years ago, whom he thought of often. He always had to walk away from those people, always unhappy to do it, but grateful for having encountered them at all.

But to say he was lonely was a gross understatement. When he experienced those beautiful vistas and pieces of music, there was no one to share them with. Human beings never smiled at him quite as genuinely as they smiled at each other. He always went home to empty apartments and houses. He fed alone. He observed every holiday alone, if at all. He couldn't even touch anyone, not for a handshake or even to take their temperature, although sometimes he wouldn't be able to stand it and he'd break his rule, if only very briefly and very, very rarely. Even then, it was almost never out of affection. But even when it felt like he couldn't bear another moment of aching solitude, he'd plugged along industriously with no reason to suppose that anything would change.

Humans who were around Carlisle for awhile often concluded he was a confirmed bachelor. If they'd known better, they might have more astutely compared his lifestyle to that of a monk's. I'd never met a monk, but that's what he seemed like to me. Monks had once been apothecaries, after all, and had quiet, scholarly pursuits. They observed and measured the stars, worked up healing tinctures, aided the sick and spent their leisure time in reflective prayer, desiring nothing more than closeness to God. Their entire waking lives were disciplined and chaste, requiring great self-control.

But not even monks lived all alone. They had brothers in their monasteries.

Carlisle finally had one brother in his monastery, and while I wasn't anything special, I was glad he wasn't alone anymore. Everyone ought to have a friend.

* * *

I enjoyed my morning at the piano, letting it go on into the afternoon. I even played _Jeux d'Eau_. It irritated me that it was Demetri who'd introduced me to the piece, but there was no denying how much I liked it. It also made me intensely curious about the rest of Ravel's works, since I remembered so little about them from my human life. And there was something about that composer... I couldn't put my finger on it. There was some piece-part of my human memory either locked away or gone that had to do with his music. If only I could remember...

I stopped playing and watched out the window as the last of the clouds over the Grafton area trickled away from the sun. They would clear Milwaukee soon, too; Carlisle was probably on his way back.

With late afternoon sunshine now pouring through the woods, a swim seemed appealing, so I headed outside to the river and peeled off my clothes. I dove in and surfaced quickly, ready to glide through the water, but that changed when I heard the whispers of thoughts headed my way. I recognized them immediately, even as faint as they were, and froze in shock. It couldn't be...

But it was. Even the rapid speed with which the individual was approaching confirmed it.

_Shit. Shit, shit shit. This can't be happening, _I thought, charging out of the river. I threw my clothes on hurriedly, knowing I didn't have long. He'd be here in mere seconds.

And he was.

Fletcher Dunn was relieved to see me when he got to the clearing around our cabin - in my form again.

It was fast, after all, and one prefers to be fast when running from the Volturi.

"You ran away from them?" I shouted. "Are you_ insane_? Why did you do that?"

He ignored my tirade, glancing around frantically for some sign of Carlisle.

"Where is he?"

"He's in the city!"

_He's not here? No, that can't be... they're not far behind, there's no time-_

Fletcher ran into the cabin. He knew I was telling the truth about Carlisle being gone, but couldn't help himself.

_He has to be here. He has to be._

I rushed in behind him, so infuriated by his stupidity I felt on the verge of killing him myself. "What in the hell do you think Carlisle could for you even if he _was_ here?"

Finally accepting that any hope of assistance here was futile, his expression sank into despair.

_I just thought... he knows so many of our kind... _"Maybe he could have told me about someone to go to, or somewhere safe..." _maybe he could have stopped them..._

"He can't stop them! No one could, no matter who you run to. How did you get away from them to begin with?"

Running his hands though his hair, clenching it, he faced the open doors, dreading what would soon come from the woods beyond.

"Last night the others went to explore the city and left me with the woman and her mate. By then they were convinced I was going along peacefully and had their guard down, so I slipped away when the couple got... _ involved_ with each other. Still, it wasn't much of a head start."

"You've killed yourself."

"I'd be dead anyway!" he bellowed, whipping around to face me. "I'd be dead as soon as we got to Volterra and that mindreading cretin they call 'Master' touched me and found out that I planned to kill his precious tracker! And what's more, he'd see that _you_ kept it from them!"

My breathing stopped. Shit, he was right. Why hadn't I realized? Aro _would _see...

"What else was I supposed to do? I could go along with them peacefully and _definitely_ die, and probably you, too - or I could run and still probably die, but at least they'd never find out that you didn't report me."

Guilt and panic twisted inside. He'd been acting in part for my benefit. If only Carlise was here; maybe he _would _have been able to come up with something...

I listened for hints of his pursuers, and hearing none grasped for a sliver of hope.

"You've got to get out of here before they catch up. I'll try to stall them as much as I can, but you've got to go. Keep using my speed, every bit of it you can. I'm faster than all of them. If you keep going long enough maybe you can get far enough ahead to lose Demetri. He relies too much on his gift of detecting specific minds and it's only good within a few hundred miles. There's a chance-"

But he was already shaking his head. There was no hope left in him; he'd given up as soon as he saw Carlisle wasn't here.

"No. No more. I'm done." _I'm so fucking tired of running._

"Don't say that," I said through clenched teeth. "You still have a chance! You wouldn't be the first to get away from them."

"No. I can't live like that anymore- running, hiding, always looking over my shoulder. Doesn't matter if it's five days or five hundred, it's not worth it." _Besides, if you stall them and I get away, what'll they do to you? _"It doesn't make sense for you to go down with me."

"But-"

"No. I'm ready to get it over with."

My jaw worked for a few moments with the beginnings of pleas that never came out. He was really going to let them tear him apart.

My gaze rocked to the east when I picked up a whisper of Silesian.

"You can hear them, can't you?" Fletcher's voice - again a pitch-perfect recreation of my own - was hollow.

I stared at him, feeling the cabin shrink around us as though doom itself was closing in, and something changed in him. His thoughts suddenly relaxed into a giddy, bitter sort of acceptance, and he smirked.

"Don't look so terrified, Ed. Think of it this way: I'm about to perform my most amazing transformation yet. I'm going to turn into thin air right before your very eyes."

Then there were three voices, and they were almost to the cabin... they weren't even going to pause.

I swallowed. "Please try."

From the forest came the sound of dry, dead trees being cracked apart. Fletcher backed away towards the door as two dark-cloaked figures cut through sunlight slanting through the window.

My twin smiled wanly.

_Give my regards to Broadway._

Then they were inside, engulfing him... and he was gone.

For a microsecond I couldn't move, and then it was as if something that had been coiling tight inside me snapped.

"STOP!"

I ran out the door and leapt off the porch, landing on the guard I'd never met and trying to pry his grip loose from Fletcher.

"Please don't! Just wait-"

But Afton was much stronger than I anticipated; he silently shoved me to the ground with one hand and continued with Demetri, dragging Fletcher to a third vampire.

Hooded in her black cloak, Chelsea looked on somberly, waiting next to a pile of ready kindling. In her hand was a pewter, horn-shaped torch of some sort, engraved with the emblems of the Volturi. A flame, fueled by who knew what, danced from its open end and she held it to the stack of wood, turning it instantly into a pyre.

I'd already scrambled to my feet and had gone for Demetri next, trying to wrestle him away from Fletcher instead of just prying his grip loose.

"Damn it, please stop! Just wait for Carlisle to get back, please! He doesn't deserve this-"

Demetri's solution to my interference was cruelly simple; I'd gotten my arms around him, grappling to pull him away, so he just let me, but wrenched his prisoner's arm violently at the same time, using my force to his advantage. With a glassy, metallic crunch Fletcher's arm was severed and Fletcher threw his head back, letting loose a shriek of pain that he choked off, swallowing his own agony. Afton dragged him on and then flung him to his knees while Chelsea closed in, getting ready to help deliver the death blows.

Demetri slipped out of my shock-loosened grasp and glided to the fire, throwing the twitching limb into it as if it was good riddance. The smoke instantly took on a violet tint, dispersing a strange, sweet odor, and that's when I knew it was over.

All I could do was stand by impotently while they finished him off, and I'd never hated my ability more than I did right then. A man should be able to die with dignity if he wants to, without his terrified thoughts bleeding out for someone like me to hear.

Fletcher was so gut-twistingly scared. As Afton gripped his head from behind and Chelsea took hold of his only intact arm, his terror ratcheted up into black grief and panic, and he lost control. Fletcher's wail was pitiful.

"Oh my God! Please no...!"

My eyes screwed shut just before that same horrible noise came again; the ripping apart of one of our kind. I'd seen it in Carlisle's memories before, but I couldn't see it like this. Not like this.

_No... no... don't look at me..._

Confused by what I heard, I opened my eyes. It was a mistake.

Afton was gripping Fletcher's head by the hair, examining his dying, slackened features... and then he looked at me, comparing our faces, before lazily tossing it into the fire.

Only one thing kept me from being paralyzed by horror in that moment. Something drew my attention- _all_ of our attention.

From three miles up the road came screeching snaps of solid metal bursting apart, and at the same time another scream rocketed through the air with the force of a fired canonball. It was primordial and terrible, a shriek of such fury and grief that it would have frozen a human's blood in its veins. No mortal creature could make a sound like that. I'd never heard it before, but instinctively knew it was a vampire consumed by lethal rage - and if I didn't know who it belonged to, I would have turned and run for my life.

He was still too far for me to hear his mind, but it had to be him. The Volturi guards around me seemed to know it, too. I looked up at the towering pillar of smoke in the still air; it could easily be seen from the road, probably for miles. He must have been driving back, seen the smoke, heard Fletcher's terrified wailing... _in my voice_.

Oh, God.

The scene before me disregarded, I ran in the direction of that scream just before it died, homing in on its source.

"Carlisle!" I shouted.

There were steps running behind me at first, but then-

"Demetri! Let him go."

The terse command was obeyed, but I paid no attention, thinking only to get to Carlisle. I'd have to move fast if I was going to intercept him before he got to the cabin and attacked. He'd lose.

I caught his scent to the north and altered my course immediately; within two seconds I picked up on his mind- or what scraps were left that resembled it. It was just an unstoppable torrent of violence; he didn't care if he died- he was going to rip at them until they killed him, his only goal to try to take one of them with him.

And then there he was, lighting over a wooded rise to my right – I stopped running and shouted.

"Carlisle!"

He whipped his gaze in my direction and froze, and the black fury twisting his features... I almost wouldn't have recognized him. In half a second, though, his face went blank... there was no defined thought in his brain, and then he moved fast-

His breath collapsed, quaking as he clutched me in a fierce embrace; I couldn't even get my arms free to hug him back. I had no memory of being held so tightly.

_Thank you God, thank you... my boy..._

"I'm alright," I managed to say. "It was Fletcher. He ran, came back here..."

The explanation barely registered in his thoughts; in the time it took for Carlisle to calm down, he was too overwhelmed with emotion to edit or disguise anything. I saw things he didn't mean for me to see.

I'd known before then that he felt fatherly towards me, but hearing that spilled barrage of devotion, locked in that embrace; no wonder Chelsea's talent proved useless on him. Carlisle really loved me; he felt it was as close to experiencing parental love as one of our kind could get.

He would undertake any task for me, sever any previous bond, die for me. More than that, it was apparent that Carlisle, a pacifist all his days, would kill for me. And the abject misery he imagined his existence would be if I was destroyed...

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, remaining utterly still. I let him hold me, stunned by the ferocity of the embrace, coming to grips with the understanding that I was the closest thing to a son this creature could ever have.

I searched for more words, something that would reciprocate adequately... and couldn't come up with any. As much as I admired Carlisle, and even depended on him, I just didn't see him as a father. During the last ten months, encouraged by Carlisle himself, I'd been nurturing memories of my real father. A mortal man who'd died of the flu was my father, not the vampire clutching me now.

And Carlisle knew it. He eased away as he got a hold of himself, and his gaze flitted up to mine for the briefest moment before falling again. When he spoke, his voice sounded unnaturally tired.

"I'm sorry," he said. _Don't give any thought to what you just heard, please. I can manage my own feelings on the matter. _

His sentiments pained me. I wanted to say something that would offer comfort, but all I could muster was, "It's alright."

He took a deep breath, nodding slightly.

"The changeling came back," he said.

I nodded.

_They destroyed him in front of you, while he was in your form..._

Again, I nodded.

Carlisle's jaw clenched as he glowered in the direction of the cabin. _Why did he run? Stupid!_

"He realized Aro would see he'd planned to kill Demetri, and that I didn't tell them about it. He thought he'd be executed for it, and maybe me too, so he just took his chances. He got here looking for you, thought you could tell him where to go. Then he just gave up when you weren't here. I tried to stop them, I swear, tried to tell them to wait at least until you got back, but they wouldn't stop. It happened so fast, Carlisle, I didn't know what to-"

_No! He can't blame himself for this. Edward, no..._

"Even if I'd been here, it wouldn't have made a difference. There wouldn't have been any talking them out of it."

"Was he right? Would they have killed him in Volterra?"

"I don't know. Aro certainly would have destroyed him for any thoughts against the coven _after_ Fletcher had joined, but for any before?" _Many of the Volturi were once outlaws who fought before being cornered and offered the chance to join instead. I don't think Aro ever felt threatened by the hostile thoughts they'd entertained up to that point. Fletcher's gift, though, and the nature of his plan... Aro might have seen him as too risky to keep. Still, I can't imagine his destroying a talent like that without at least studying it for a while._ _And you..._

"The triad wouldn't have had you executed, I'm certain. You'd still talked Fletcher out of that plan, and encouraged him to go peacefully. That you held back from telling them... I'm not sure that they'd see it as enough of a breach to even justify forcing you to join. "

Without realizing it, I'd stopped breathing as it became apparent that Fletcher had probably died for nothing.

Just then we both heard a vehicle humming in the distance, and Carlisle snorted in frustration before his gaze settled on the direction he'd come running from.

_Damn it, the car is still down there..._

"I'll go," I said.

He frowned as images from the end of his drive came to mind.

_It's not exactly drivable._

By the looks of things, he was in the market for a new car.

* * *

While he went on to the cabin to deal with his "friends," I went to the road. What remained of the Peerless was a good fifty yards off the opposite side of it, hunched against a broken pine. It was battered all over, but the most obvious damage was to the front end, where it looked like something had detonated in the driver's seat.

Carlisle had seen the smoke, heard my voice wailing in hopeless terror, and had exploded out of the vehicle without so much as opening the door, the force of his departure rolling the car violently off the road, leaving a trail of debris on its way. Amazingly, it had smashed against the tree right-side-up, and the engine was still wheezing anemically, even as acrid fuel leaked out of the dying machine. But he was right - it wasn't drivable.

I killed the engine and quickly gathered the debris, which I threw into the vehicle. It was too big to haul through dense woods, but I was sure there was barely enough time before the approaching car would pass by. I ended up pulling the wreck behind me as I ran up the road to the long cabin driveway, praying the rear wheels would stay intact until I got it out of sight.

I did get it out of the way in time, but that wasn't the end of our problems. Halfway up the drive I caught the scent of a horse, and then its rider - still a good fifteen minutes away, and I couldn't hear the thoughts yet - but echoing screams, crashes and columns of violet smoke had evidently attracted attention.

* * *

Carlisle was snarling at a humble-looking Chelsea. "Why here? The smoke can be seen for miles! Couldn't you have taken Fletcher somewhere more remote before murdering him?"

"'Murder?' Such a strong word," Demetri commented, his tone thick with sarcasm.

"There's someone coming," I announced, dropping the front end of our new piece of junk. "One person on horseback. Two miles northeast."

"Perfect," Carlisle hissed.

"Oh, dear," Demetri said. "There goes our reputation for being discreet."

"Anyone feeling peckish?" Afton asked.

_Of course that would be their solution,_ I thought bitterly.

"Not on our territory," Carlisle said. "Whoever it is, they're going to get here alive, and they're going to leave here alive."

Chelsea ignored the exchange, her obvious goal to smooth things over. "We are so very sorry," she said to Carlisle. "But we could risk no further outbursts of disobedience from the changeling. Please believe me when I say this is the last thing we wanted to happen, especially at your expense."

"We _should_ be asking why he came back here in the first place," Demetri said, focusing on me. "What did you hear in his thoughts? He must have come back here for a reason. He must have had a plan. You were a part of it, weren't you?"

Carlisle stepped in front of me. "Edward did nothing to encourage this! Fletcher ran from you out of his own fear of being destroyed once in Volterra, nothing more! And if you hadn't made a sport of exacerbating his fears at every opportunity, perhaps he wouldn't have fled!"

"That doesn't answer why he returned here," Afton said.

"Because he didn't know what else to do," I said tightly. "That's all there was to it. He just hoped there was some chance of Carlisle being able to help him."

"A foolish hope if ever there was one," Demetri said. Tendrils of smoke from the pyre began to die behind him, as if giving testament to his claim.

"And not a hope that we fostered," Carlisle retorted. "Look to yourselves for that fault. You, who brought him here to begin with, when you should have taken him straight on to Volterra! Instead you decided to toy with his gift-"

"Ridiculous," Demetri muttered. "You expect us to believe-"

"_Stregone_ is right," Chelsea said. "It is our fault, especially mine. We weren't vigilant enough in watching him in New York. And you were a wonderful host, Carlisle. Your treatment of us, in light of what you knew I was here to do..." her gaze flickered at me... "was more than generous."

Demetri glared at her. "How can you let this go so easily? Master Aro will-"

"Contrary to what you may think," she cut him off again with icy calm, "I know Master Aro better than you do, and even he would say this is no longer good sport. We've imposed on our friends, and we owe them apologies."

She took her mate's hand, presenting a united front, and Demetri deflated, though his sullen gaze remained narrowed at me.

"Will you accept our sincerest apologies?" she asked, this time directing the request to both of us.

I hadn't really come to grips with all the events of the last half hour yet. Everything still had a veil of impossible over it... I kept looking at Fletcher's smoldering remains, half-dreading that they'd start to tumble together, trying to take some new, ashen shape.

"Only so long as this gets no worse," Carlisle replied. "You need to leave before the human gets here."

"Today, we clean up after _you_," I added, fixing a contemptuous gaze on Demetri. His whole frame tensed as if dying to attack.

"We are very sorry to leave things so untidy_,_" Chelsea said.

"Apology accepted. Please give Santiago my regards." _And this time, get on the damn ship._

Until then I hadn't registered that Santiago was absent, and wondered if he'd opted out on his own. Their little sadist had stayed behind as well, which was fine by me._  
_

"Farewell, my friend. Come," she said to her companions, and then turned away with Afton. Demetri followed reluctantly, but not before shooting me a look of sheer hatred.

I wondered if he wasn't, at least in part, thinking about what faced them upon their return. They were going back to Volterra empty-handed, having nearly alienated one of Aro's dear friends.

They were only just out of sight when Carlisle turned to me.

"Can you hear the human's thoughts?" _How long do we have?_

I nodded. "Nine minutes, maybe."

He moved for the fire, ready to scatter it, but the idea of watching those ashes just be kicked around, gotten rid of like something shameful...

"No!" I grabbed his arm in desperation.

_What is it? Edward? _

"Not yet," I swallowed, and then lit for the cabin.

He was in the habit keeping some human items around that were handy props, just in case of an unexpected human visitor (something he'd learned was necessary many, many years ago), and one of them was a box of cigars that always sat next to a bottle of aged brandy. I grabbed the box and dumped the cigars out, save one, and then ran back out. I handed the cigar to Carlisle without explanation and then raced to the smoldering ashes of our visitor, sliding to a stop on my knees.

Carlisle said nothing while I frantically picked out bits of hot, charred wood, scooping up handfuls of Fletcher's remains into the box. Even as ash, our kind was unique; it was just as light as other ash, but consisted of pebble-like granules that were black and lustrous, glinting like polished onyx. Still, there was so much ash from the wood mixed in with it; I had to stop. I stood with the closed cigar box, my frantic gaze still catching so many disparate, shimmering shards, but there just wasn't enough time to get it all.

I tore myself away to stash the cigar box in my room. As I did, Carlisle stuck the cigar in his jacket pocket and started ripping out bunches of dry weeds and gathering junk wood to start a new fire in the same spot, instead of scattering what was left.

_We'll be able to get the rest later if there's no wind. Grab that brandy and a glass while you're in there._

* * *

Joseph Medtner had had a strange day. His horse had been acting up, for one thing. The nineteen year-old palomino had been through thick and thin with him since she'd been born; she was as steady as they came - but not today. Several times she'd reared in panic at seemingly nothing, trying to bolt before he could calm her. The first time, and even the second, he'd paid extreme attention, watching, waiting long stretches of time for some evidence of what made her panic to materialize, but nothing ever did. They were in the same woods he'd done his fall hunting in for years, though he wasn't hunting this afternoon - it was just too nice of a day not to ride.

As the afternoon widened along with their wanderings, he observed that her fits happened whenever they got within a mile or so of the Kettle Creek/Milwaukee confluence. There was a cabin near there, he knew, but nothing that should have set her off. Maybe she was just getting nosefuls of something she didn't like. Maybe she was getting nervous and fussy in her old age, though with horses it was usually the opposite.

He was just getting set to head back to his own cabin for supper when she halted again and neighed in alarm, stamping and turning, and that's when he saw a column of strange, purple colored smoke in the distance. What in the world could be burning? He'd stopped the horse from moving and squinted... sure enough, it was centered right where that cabin ought to be.

He thought he heard a wail for a second, but had barely registered it when it a burst of strange, metallic squealing shot out, and a scream... echoey and thin because of the distance, but no less vivid. The horse's ears flattened and she tried backing away before he reined her still.

Joseph was a curious man; some would say nosy, but he'd never heard a scream like that from any creature, human or animal, and he didn't like it at all. The woods went eerily quiet in the wake of that shriek, and the only sound was his heart hammering while every hair on the back of his neck stood straight and his stomach did funny turns. He didn't have any firearms with him. For once, he nearly let his horse do the leading and take them in the opposite direction.

He waited for several apprehensive, indecisive minutes. There were no more screams, and he began to wonder if it had been an animal after all. But it had been so unearthly...

The smoke in the distance ebbed, but stayed that strange color, and the subdued hush to the wilderness around him lingered on. But as time slid by with no further incident, and with his fear abating, curiosity won out.

* * *

I was at the piano, playing the _Gymnopedies_ again. All the doors and windows were open. By the fire outside, Carlisle reclined lazily in one of the Adirondack chairs with a lit cigar stuffed in his mouth, hat drawn down over his eyes and a short glass of brandy in his hand, the very picture of a man who was imbibing during a break from outdoor chores. There was still just enough pre-sunset light coming through the woods to necessitate his shaded spot under the maple.

The Peerless sat behind the cabin under tarps normally used for the furniture in the off-season; only extremely close inspection would clue anyone in to its dilapidated state.

After Joseph managed to coax his horse through the last steps into the cabin's clearing, he took in the scene with a leery eye. Between the piano music and the calm of the place, nothing looked amiss, but here was the source of the fire. He saw Carlisle, who apparently hadn't noticed him yet, and wondered if he should speak up or just turn around.

"'Evenin'," he finally mustered.

Carlisle sat forward and tipped up his hat as if surprised.

"'Evenin'," he replied with a soused grin. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothin.' I was just passing by up north and... I don't know, but there was this God-awful screech coming from somewhere over in this direction. Did you hear anything?"

As he spoke, Joseph eyed the fire with suspicion... _looks like just yard trash, but I coulda sworn that smoke was... maybe it was just a trick of light. Or maybe he was just burning rubber... but the stink around here is weird... too sweet to be rubber...  
_

Carlisle looked confused as he took the cigar from his mouth.

"Can't say I've heard anything like that," he replied, then took a swill of brandy. "What kind of scream was it?"

"Eh, you wouldn't ask if you'd heard it. I'm surprised you didn't; it was echoing around pretty good. Most blood-curdling thing I ever heard. You sure you didn't hear anything?"

Carlisle snickered. "The only screech I heard came from my nephew when I told him to practice his piano. His sister gives me grief like you wouldn't believe when she finds out I haven't made him practice at least once during our hunting weekends," he said, slurring now and then. Then his eyes lit up. "Say, you in a hurry to go anywhere? Why don't you have a seat, take a drink?"

"Oh- no thanks. Your nephew sounds pretty good, though. Could probably get away without practicing for a day or two," Medtner replied, already anxious to end the small talk and make an exit. This place didn't seem like a likely source of the scream, even if it was the source of the smoke, which looked normal enough now. Also, the guy in the chair was obviously on his way to a full drunk, and Joseph was a teetotaler who despised alcohol.

_"It's working. Keep it up," _I said, quietly enough that only Carlisle would hear.

Carlisle dipped the mouth-end of his cigar into the brandy before taking a puff. "Yeah, he's pretty good, I admit, but it's way too early for this soporific stuff he's playing now. Makes me want to snooze. Edward! Hey Edward!"

I stopped playing and craned my head my head out the window next to the piano.

"Yeah?"

"Can you play something more lively? We're falling asleep out here!"

I scowled, acknowledging the newcomer with a half-wave, then set my fingers back on the ivories. I didn't even think about it until it was too late. _The Entertainer _started pouring out before I realized it had been in the back of my mind for days.

"That's more like it," Carlisle mumbled, and then stood up unsteadily. "You sure you don't want a drink? Come on, take a load off. I'll get you a chair."

"Thanks, but I oughtta get going, so... have a good evening. Glad everything's OK."

Medtner left then, his horse gladly obeying the signal for a moderate gallop.

Carlisle waited for him to get out of hearing range before expelling the brandy.

I stopped playing the incongruous tune, only to remain numbly where I was. Carlisle sat back down in the Adirondack chair outside, throwing the cigar into the fire, which crackled away by the maple. Neither of us spoke or moved for some time.

* * *

It wasn't until nighttime that I got the cigar box and went outside. Carlisle joined me, and we sifted through ash together, picking out the important bits.

When finished, we remained there quietly, each keeping his own counsel. Almost as if it had been waiting, a rush of wind did pick up, making the trees creak as they swayed, relinquishing hold of papery leaves.

"Do you really think the souls of all our kind are lost?" I finally broke our silence.

It took a little while for the answer to come from his incoagulate thoughts.

_I don't know. But maybe, when we try the way you did the other morning... the way Fletcher did when he tried animal blood... maybe that counts for something. Maybe we get some measure of credit for trying._

I nodded, my grip flexing protectively around the cigar box.

* * *

_A/N: And there you have it - the end of the Peerless 56's involvement in this __story. Oh, and the end of Volturi. _

_Ugh. If I'd had any clue that their appearance would turn into this seven-headed beast, I would have made it a separate companion fic._

_For any of you who thought they were gone for good at the end of ch. 18, please remember my author's note at the end of it- I merely said that the end of their visit was contained within the ginormous chapter I'd been working on for months, which I had chosen to break up into smaller chapters. :D Hey, I couldn't let on that they were coming back, right? Besides, you didn't really think Fletcher was going to make it out of this story alive, did you? ;)_

_I'm glad everyone liked the Nephilim chapter, and my apologies for this one taking longer. The kinks were tougher to work out than I'd anticipated._

_The Twilighted thread is open for discussion: ht tp :/ / twilighted (dot) net / forum /viewtopic (dot) php ? f=17&t =16839_

_Earlier this month I posted some images related to the Nephilim/vampire origin myth in it, and for those of you who'd like to hear excellent renditions of the music Edward played in this chapter, I'm posting YouTube links there as well._

_Thank you, as always, for reading._


	23. A Fine Invention

Chapter 22 - A Fine Invention

_Faith is a fine invention_

_When gentlemen can see-_

_But microscopes are prudent_

_In an emergency_

_- Faith is a Fine Invention_ by Emily Dickinson

* * *

_October 7th, 1919_

"So it's settled."

Carlisle nodded, hanging the telephone's earpiece into its cradle, having just accepted a position at Ashland's tiny, still-gestating hospital. They'd apparently already mailed the paperwork.

"It sounds like they're disorganized."

"That's not unusual for new hospitals," he replied. _ The construction's on schedule, though, so the January opening will be on time. I should pay a visit to the Grafton post office tomorrow to see if the paperwork's arrived. _

It would be the first mail addressed to Dr. Carl Williamson, recent graduate of Marquette University's College of Physicians and Surgeons. He didn't use an alias often, but thought it prudent this time. It would be one thing if we were leaving the region, like he usually did after spending a few years someplace, but Ashland wasn't really that far. And, as he explained it, this was a new age of automobiles and telephones, with professional organizations that were coalescing, especially in the medical field with all its recent advancements; the world was smaller than it used to be. He'd just finished a several-year stint at one of the best hospitals in Chicago, and enough area physicians had met or heard of a Dr. Carlisle Cullen on staff at St. Luke's that there might be raised eyebrows at mention of a fledgling M.D. of the same name just hired at a new facility in the region; the one they knew of had supposedly gone to San Francisco. Nobody would think twice about a green graduate named Williamson, though, and Ashland was just far enough and small enough to make running into a former colleague highly unlikely.

"Have you come to a decision about Northland?" he asked.

I nodded. "Not this year. Maybe next fall."

_I'm sorry. It's not much of a college, is it? We could go somewhere else, perhaps the east coast..._

"Ashland's good for now, really," I reassured him.

Northland College was a tiny, fledgling affair; attended by a small number of youth from Ashland and the surrounding area, the available degrees were few. Its size was of concern - being part of classes that averaged five students would make it hard to blend in. Then again, that would make things easier as far as my thirst and my "gift" were concerned, but it wasn't much to get excited about, either.

College wasn't a priority so much as a goal - one of the few things I _could_ still accomplish in the human world, as I would have had I lived. I would always look too young to masquerade in most professions as anything but an apprentice, but a college student? That would be easy enough, even if I couldn't join a fraternity or clubs or sports teams, or go through rites of manhood that many human boys my age looked forward to during their college years. So it was, perhaps, fortunate that my interest in college was... well, academic.

"You can change your mind anytime, no objections," Carlisle said. _So many options... _"You don't have to limit yourself. You had such outstanding marks from The Latin School. Seems a pity not to take advantage of them."

I shrugged. "There's no rush to do it right now. It's not like I don't have time," I said. "You still like Ashland, right?"

_It's as good a place as any... better cloud cover than inland, _he thought to me consciously. Meanwhile, a second layer of thought underneath..._ odd to settle for such a sedate life, staying so close to Chicago... someone his age - in either world - usually can't wait to explore..._

"Carlisle."

His gaze settled on me inquisitively.

"You hardly recognized London when you finally went back."

The expression on his face melted into somber understanding, along with his thoughts.

_Yes... you have time. _

And some years of it would pass in a little shipping town on the edge of Lake Superior, with a tiny college I may or may not attend, and a much smaller hospital that didn't officially exist yet. Out of the way, quiet. But close enough...

"I wonder why they named it Ashland," I said a little while later.

* * *

_October 16th, 1919_

"How about this one, then?"

Carlisle took one glance at the ad for the Paige Speedster in my hand and winced.

_It's yellow._

"That's just the illustrator's choice. You can order a different color."

"It's too small."

"Oh, come on, there's plenty of room. And it's fast. The prototype topped 100 miles an hour at Daytona Beach this year."

"Which means it's not even in production yet," he said, taking the magazine out of my hand and letting it slap into the pile of discarded options. "Let's at least limit ourselves to what's available. Besides, all that speed is unnecessary. Flashy vehicles are attention-getters. We need to blend in."

"Is that what you're hoping to do in this?" I asked, picking up a torn-out newspaper photo of Pierce-Arrow's Series 51 limousine from the "possible" pile. He'd been mentally doting over the thing ever since seeing it.

"I thought you liked Pierce-Arrows," he said.

"Some, sure," I replied, recalling my father's own Pierce-Arrow sedan. "But _this _thing... it's not even an automobile. It's an ostentatious carriage with a motor on it."

_A little ornamentation doesn't make it ostentatious. It's stately. Besides, the touring edition isn't quite so large as that one, and overall, I think it-_

"-sticks out like a sore thumb," I interrupted. "A big, black, six-cylinder thumb with lanterns stuck to the sides. It actually _looks_ like something Dracula would drive. If you buy this behemoth, I'll get a pipe organ and play Gothic funeral dirges whenever you drive it away. "

His mouth twitched. _I wasn't actually going to buy one. I was just admiring it._

"A lot."

I really should've been taking it easier on him; this was, after all, _his_ car we were choosing. But he'd insisted on my input, and boy, did he need it. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up with something like that Pierce-Arrow.

Without even realizing it, poor Carlisle tended to favor vehicles that were throwbacks to luxuriously-appointed, large Victorian carriages he'd admired for a hundred or so years (he'd actually been wistful when he read that Studebaker stopped making carriages), but couldn't use because of the horses needed to pull the things.

He was mindful to keep up with the times and was glad to embrace automobiles, but his tastes desperately needed to be nudged along. The only reason he'd had the Peerless, as it turned out, was because a fellow doctor at St. Luke's had needed to sell it after his wife had thrown a fit of disapproval about the purchase.

We'd been through seventy-three different magazines and papers, and our stack of torn-out ads and photos for the "possible" pile was still thin. I'd suggested a ReVere roadster; he'd shot it down. He'd offered up a Kenworthy 4-80 with a glint in his eye; it went into the discard pile.

"I still think you should order a Meisenhelder," I said, but he shook his head again. "What's wrong with it? It's a touring car."

"I like it, but it's too unique." _Maybe I should just get another Peerless. Or maybe one of Ford's Model T's. That's a sufficiently homogeneous choice._

My jaw clenched. "I won't let you get a flivver, Carlisle."

"Let me?" _That's pushing it._

"You wanted my opinion, didn't you? _Don't _get a Model T," I grumbled, mindful not to tear the paper as I flipped through the next magazine."You should at least have-"

My fingers stopped along with my words as I scanned the details of the automobile on page twelve. Now this had potential. The body was close to the type he preferred, but sleeker. It was luxurious in an understated way, and looked like something a young, ambitious doctor might drive around if he had a little money (and if he was ready to have a family; Carlisle was inexplicably fond of excess seating capacity). The maker was well-known and, so far, had staying power. It wasn't meant for speed but had some nonetheless, and was powerful. Westinghouse electric in all the right places.

I held it up. "What about this?"

_Not another speedster, _he thought, lifting a defeated gaze to the page. But then his head tilted slightly. _Say, I like that. _

"Not bad, is it?"

"Not bad at all." He reached out and took the magazine to examine the Cadillac sedan shown, imagining it in blue.

It went on top of the possible pile, and stayed there.

* * *

_November 1, 1919_

"I'm not going to be able to keep Aunt Sophie at bay," I told him, folding up her most recent letter. "My uncle's going overseas on business next summer, and she's starting to make plans to bring my cousins and stay at the Magnolia house. If I'm anywhere in the region, there'll be no excuse not to visit at least once."

It was probably why she was coming to begin with, instead of going to Europe with my uncle. I'd turned down all of her invitations to go to Boston.

"Do you want to see them?"

"I don't know."

Part of me wanted to, even if the emotional ties were only vaguely felt. She, Uncle Gerard and their children were my only living relatives.

"Do you think it's possible?" I asked. "How would I explain how different I look?"

"When was the last time she saw you?"

"I was fourteen, I think."

"It's possible. Those are crucial years in terms of physical development... and some who recover from the flu come out a little worse for wear. That could explain your pallor." Y_ou don't look sickly in the same way some humans do after surviving, but there's no helping that. They'll think it strange no matter what. And the eyes..._ "You could avoid feeding for a while before seeing them, so your eyes are a more natural color, but that means your thirst would be on edge."

"Too risky."

"What about dark glasses? You could say the fever your affected your eyesight." _Sensitivity to light, perhaps? It's not impossible._

"Maybe." They might buy it. I hadn't mentioned anything as drastic as post-flu eyesight deficiency to them before, though, and it would probably seem odd that I hadn't.

Everything they knew about my situation was probably odd to them. As far as they knew, Dr. Cullen had relocated to San Francisco, and I'd spent the summer hiking and camping in the northern reaches of the Great Lakes wilderness. I'd written letters and postcards sometimes, and after my aunt delivered a baby girl in August I sent some gifts and made a telephone call. She'd sounded concerned about my situation and lack of plans for the future, and my news of renting a cabin for the fall hadn't soothed away the worry.

Visiting while they were in Chicago would be my best opportunity to put as many curiosities and worries to rest as possible, but I'd have to stay at the house with them for a couple days to make it look good, and so much could go wrong. How many excuses would I need not to go on outings if it was sunny? What if one of my cousins skinned a knee while I had my guard down? How much of their food would I have to ingest?

I contemplated the whole scenario for a moment, unsure if all the trouble would be worth it. I wasn't sure what kind of feelings it would stir up. What good would it do if I got nostalgic, and wanted to see more of them? I was going to have to play the role of their strangely reclusive relative until my death anyways - I was thinking about "dying" of a sudden heart attack in my mid-thirties - dragging my phony human life on longer than that seemed pointless. Wouldn't it be better for everyone involved if I kept my distance until then?

_If he's going to see them, sooner would be better than later. _"You only have so much time before they notice you aren't aging."

"I know."

* * *

_My Dear Friend,_

_My brothers join me in offering an apology for the incidents beset upon you as a result of our guards' ill judgment. It is beyond my power to express how dismayed I was upon learning of what transpired during their time with you. The unpleasantness was, as you observed, their responsibility. They should not have taken the changeling to your abode, but sent him to Volterra directly. Rest assured, they have been thoroughly chastened for their actions._

_I confess to spending many hours examining their recollections of him, anxious to understand how such a thing could be possible. Among the most puzzling things is how such a singular talent had manifested itself in what appears to have been an otherwise unremarkable being. I would be very interested to know your thoughts on what you observed of him, and any theories you may have developed. How I miss our discussions! _

_Alas, even the witness Demetri and Santiago bore to his transformations fails to illuminate. What a tragic waste, and so disappointing that observations of his incredible gift must be limited to what is in their memories. Perhaps it is for the best, however. His ability may have created as much discord here as it did in your home. _

_We are fortunate that you are such a tolerant creature, and so able to place things in the proper perspective. And if I may say so, you are fortunate, indeed, in your fledgling. Your Edward has exceeded every expectation, and we offer congratulations on your triumph. He has adapted to your ways with remarkably little trouble, and I must concede now that my predictions about the impossibility of it were wrong. We look forward to meeting him someday._

_As I make my admissions, I know your good nature will permit your own, and that you will not overlook the contributions to peace and stability we have provided. As a result of thorough examination of our returning guard, I am confident that the skirmishes plaguing the southern regions of your home continent have been put to an end. My brothers and I are quite pleased with the results. I must say, it is a pity you did not make Jane's acquaintance, and that her mercurial temperament kept her from visiting. Her talents, which I'm certain you are aware of, were instrumental in the success of our efforts._

_I would be remiss if I did not mention another event that took place during our guard's visit- one that troubles me. It seems that, due to a misunderstanding, a valuable possession of yours was destroyed. My brothers and I have yet to use automobiles, but I've recently acquired several for the coven. Heidi, especially, has taken to them. They make her work so much more expedient. I hope you find this one a suitable replacement, and will accept it as a token of our apology for the trouble you've endured. _

_I am greatly pleased that you admire the painting. Naturally, I could not help thinking of you when I saw it. _

_While we are sincerely appreciative of your gesture as well, I must beg you not to send any more sports equipment to our covenmates. There have been incidents._

_Yours in Friendship,_

_Aro _

* * *

_November 3rd, 1919_

I stood in the shade of the cabin porch with Carlisle, listening to him silently read the letter he'd just opened. Letters from Volterra were evidently always sent out double-enclosed and triple-sealed, and it was known among many of our kind that, should a human deliver such a letter with any of the seals broken, the recipient was to deal with the human accordingly- that is, make a meal of them after finding out if anyone else had read it.

Fortunately we didn't have that dilemma. It had been delivered intact, along with an already-paid invoice and release form, all of which were handed to us by a chubby youth while his father unlatched the back of a large freight container to unload cargo they'd been hired to truck here from the port at Milwaukee.

The boy was thirteen or fourteen probably, and vaguely disappointed about the cabin- they'd gotten lost for nearly an hour trying to find the place, and given what kind of car they were delivering, he'd expected it would be the address of some grand mansion.

The elder Harvey of Harvey & Son Freight, however, was a little nervous. They'd hauled a number of vehicles from the docks before, but nothing as fancy as this. He'd reinforced the shell of his freight container just to make sure the thing stayed pristine, and had braced it to the floor with felt-wrapped chains. He was afraid to breathe on it, let alone drive it, as he did now, inching a Pierce-Arrow Series 51 limousine down the ramp.

"She's sure a beauty," the kid said, his gaze locked on the gleaming, black automobile while I examined the paperwork.

Evidently Pierce-Arrow's factory in Buffalo had received a purchase order from an organization in Italy called _La Società degli Archivisti Etrusca_. Everything had been paid for in advance, including delivery of the vehicle to this address, the arrangement of which was left to Pierce-Arrow.

"Yes, she is," Carlisle said, unable to completely squelch his amusement. _I wonder where Aro even saw this..._

"Probably the same place most people did," I answered too quietly for the the kid to hear. It was the same model of automobile, after all, that had been specially ordered to greet President Wilson on his triumphant return from the conference at Versailles. The photographs had been in countless rags here, and probably overseas, too.

I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise that Aro had chosen one of the most opulent automobiles in the U.S. to send as a "replacement" gift. The Volturi had sumptuous tastes, after all.

"You want to inspect it?" Harvey asked Carlisle.

"No need. It looks fine, and you've obviously taken great care of it. As a matter of fact, I've got a wrecked Peerless that needs to go to a scrapyard. Are you available?"

"Sure. Does it roll?"

"Not up front, but the rear is fine."

It wasn't long before Harvey and his son were rattling their freight vehicle down the long driveway, taking their deliciously appetizing scent, and the remains of the Peerless, with them.

We stood staring at the shiny behemoth I'd once declared looked "like something Dracula would drive" for a solid minute before Carlisle couldn't stand it anymore.

_So, what kind of pipe organ are you thinking about getting?_

* * *

_November 12, 1919_

_"Oh God, oh God..."_

Emanating from, of all places, a warehouse, the drooly cries filtered through the night air as we drove through the outskirts of Duluth, having spent a day getting familiar with the city we'd soon be living nearby.

It was hardly the first time we'd overheard humans engaged in intimate activity. It was part and parcel of the human world, and as with most background noise of populated areas, we'd let it pass out of hearing range without comment. But something about it was bothering Carlisle tonight. His face pinched in annoyance as he glanced in the direction of the offending noise.

_I'll never understand why they always say that._

"What?" I asked.

_"Oh God, Oh God," _he repeated, complete with the breathless feminine affectation we'd heard it in, and I snorted out a laugh. He smirked self-consciously before continuing, unused to mocking anyone. "People say all sorts of odd things when they're mating, but that one oath is the most prevalent by far. I don't understand- why that phrase?" He glanced at me. _It's not a religious experience, is it?_

"How should I know?"

_I just supposed you might have picked up something from their thoughts... _"I didn't mean to imply that you know from personal experience," he added. _Unless... it's hardly unheard of for young men his age to have had an encounter or two... _

"I think I'd remember if I had," I muttered, looking out the passenger window as he shifted into the next gear. A light snow was starting to fall.

I hadn't any experience. I didn't even remember embracing a girl unless it was during a dance. And if my scant memories were any indication, I'd spent more time examining volumes of battle strategy than the pornographic deck of cards that got passed around at school.

Of the fairer sex, I'd apparently known little. My only memory concerning courtship was of my mother encouraging me to pay special attention to a girl named Molly, no doubt a last-ditch effort to distract me from going to war. I only remembered one conversation about the issue, in which I'd plainly stated to my mother that there was no point in developing any attachments since I was going to be in the Army within the year. It sparked a heated argument.

None of it happened, of course, thanks to the flu. My human life had been short enough that, in my most detached moments, it seemed no more than a study in unfulfilled potentials. Romance was just one of them, and hardly the most important. I didn't even remember anything specific except knowing that I'd had a few fantasies, only one of which I recalled with any clarity.

I'd daydreamed about the war constantly, the background usually a rolling French countryside, smoky and scarred by artillery fire. But in one of those imaginings springtime growth was taking over abandoned trenches and blast craters, beginning to restore orchards and vineyards. On a long march from a hard-fought but victorious battle, my fellow soldiers and I would wearily approach a provincial town to seek shelter for the night. The people would greet us as liberators, with cheers, flowers, and food and wine they'd saved for a special day. Pretty girls would blow us kisses. One of them, blushing and glancing shyly at me, would mesmerize me. We would find ourselves alone in the night, with the sweet, healing scents of spring around us. She would be impressed by my perfect French. She would have a heartbreaking story of loss because of the war, and I would comfort her, and we'd get carried away and make love. Of course the union would be honorable, because I'd sweep her off to America as my bride.

It must have been a very good fantasy to have survived in my memory, but it was a foreign thing now, as foreign as the sound of squeaking bedsprings and panting, sweaty humans uttering curses and crying to God, like Carlisle and I had just overheard.

"I try not to pay attention to them," I told him. "Besides, I wouldn't call what they're doing in those moments _thinking_. They're just... caught up in sensation, I guess. But I can safely say they're not communing with the Almighty.""

"Hmph." _Odd, then, that they so frequently utter it._

"You're more likely to understand it than I am," I suggested, turning the tables. "After all, you were almost seven years older than I was when you were turned."

"That was a very different time and place."

"But people had the same urges. You never-?"

"I was a member of the clergy," he said patiently.

"Oh, come on," I laughed. "Since when has 'the clergy' been completely untainted? Besides, it's not as if you had to take a vow of chastity. Anglican clergymen could marry."

"You know I never married."

"What about since then?"

He shrugged a bit, his jaw flexing. _This is humiliating. _

"You know, I have to admit you're right about this automobile," he said. "It was drawing attention, and it's far too big."

I was already chuckling before he spoke. "I know I was right, but that was still the worst attempt at changing a subject I've ever heard."

"Edward-"

"What? You can be curious about my knowledge of women, but I can't be about yours?"

"I'm sure you've seen enough of my patients in my memories to realize that I have plenty of knowledge about women," he said dryly.

"That's funny. I didn't realize we were talking about anatomy."

_For heaven's sake, he's never going to let it go._

"You started it," I snickered.

I was curious. I really hadn't thought about it before, but now that I was, I was wondering what to expect in this life when it came to the fairer sex. Carlisle had told me about the mate bond, and I'd observed it in Afton and Chelsea's minds, and there were, of course, the more "hedonistic" sexual indulgences of our kind. I hadn't felt a single urge yet, though, and now I was curious... when would the switch flip on?

Carlisle had been around a while; knew dozens of our kind. His was studiously keeping his mind off anything specific, but there had to be some interesting experiences he'd had. All that time with the Volturi, and then the Alaskan coven he'd spoken of occasionally - there just _had_ to be a story or two about those beauties-

"I've never had a sexual encounter," he said plainly. _Is that clear enough for you? _

The smooth sound of the engine filled empty space as I went still and my thoughts spurred.

It was incongruous to think of Carlisle being hedonistic, but over the course of _centuries_ he'd not once been with a female? If he'd never... and here I was, similarly devoid of any desires... were we different from the rest of our kind on yet another level?

After several moments Carlisle glanced over, instantly amused by my frozen shock.

"How can you be surprised?" he laughed. "Wasn't I just asking you what people are thinking in those moments? Have you ever seen anything in my thoughts to suggest-"

"No!" I blurted. "But it's... it's like finding out someone's never been swimming before. They might not actually _think _of swimming, or linger over memories of it, but that doesn't mean they never did it. But then you find out that they never did... and in this case, that someone has been around for hundreds of years!"

"Then what's to worry about? As you know I've done plenty of swimming," he replied.

"But the desire... it's not supposed to be lost when we change," I said, ignoring his facetiousness. It must have been the edge in my tone sobered his thoughts.

_It isn't._

"Then shouldn't we feel it? In all that time, didn't you ever _want_ to?"

The last remnants of Carlisle's amusement dissipated as he maneuvered the Pierce-Arrow through thickening snowfall, his eyebrows crowding together.

"Edward, you shouldn't be worrying yourself about this. One minute ago, you were completely unconcerned-"

"Yes, but that was before you sa-"

"-and there's no reason to be concerned now. You shouldn't use my experience as an indication of what to expect for yourself. It's different for all of us."

"Different for the rest of our kind, you mean. At least they _have _libidos," I muttered, letting my suspicion surface. "It's because we don't drink human blood, isn't it?"

His reaction began with a disconcerted start-

_What?_

- that turned into a snort-

_That's what he's so worried about?_

- and then a burst of laughter.

_Oh, Edward, no, no-_

"What else did you expect me to think?" I barked.

I'd never seen Carlisle laugh so hard before, and if it hadn't been at my expense it might've been infectious.

_I'm sorry, Edward, I really am. I suppose it's not an illogical conclusion under the circumstances, but the look on your face-_

And with that his laughter doubled, my now-seemingly paranoid words replaying in his mind... _"It's because we don't drink human blood, isn't it?"_

_...that gift of his... sometimes easy to forget how young he is... sorry, sorry..._

"Just forget it," I grumbled, folding myself in and glaring out the passenger window.

Vortexes of clumpy snowflakes spun madly in the diluted, amber-hued illumination of the side-lantern as we sped through the storm, and I kept my gaze fixed on them as Carlisle's laughter sputtered out.

Eventually his thoughts turned contemplative as memories came to the surface... presumably memories of females he'd found attractive, since there was a series of images to that effect. But, as usual when thinking of something that called for discretion, Carlisle reined it in and the images vanished.

"Our diet has nothing to do with it," he said in ensuing lull, his voice seeming to roll softly with the engine. "At least, almost nothing. Most newborns are too consumed with bloodlust to think about much else, as you were in your first months. After that, there's room for other appetites, but unlike other newborns you never slaked your thirst. You've had to focus on denying it." _But you've been able to focus on other things for a while now... there should be room for other physical cravings, should someone inspire them in you... _"And if it will make you feel any better to hear this, then I confess lust is no stranger to me, and there have been... opportunities. I just chose not to indulge."

It did make me feel better, actually, and I gave him a quick, self-conscious smirk of gratitude as I glanced at him, wondering if he was going to elaborate on his choices. But his tone and thoughts, while generally benign, made it clear I shouldn't expect that.

I wondered if, like me, he simply adhered to the doctrines he grew up with as a human, but that didn't quite seem right. Carlisle was clearly a gentleman (as much as any vampire could be), and had a deeply-rooted sense of propriety, but his thoughts were unfettered by the dogmatic prejudices one might expect from a 17th century priest. So many times in our long conversations, some little bit of literary analysis would come up that wandered to the supposedly taboo - homosexuality, premarital relations and the like. There was never any disdain in his thoughts regarding such subjects. As with all other things, he regarded them in whatever context they presented themselves and as part of the whole of humanity - the scientist and humanist in him clearly dominant. And it wasn't as if there were moral and cultural norms among our kind; that might have something to do with it, perhaps. He'd encountered numerous vampires, the succubi Alaskan coven among them, with what would be considered scandalous habits, and he was entirely without contempt.

I remembered Chelsea's words: _"You can take the priest out of the church, but you can't take the church out of the priest - at least, not in Stregone's case."_

Maybe. For Carlisle, it seemed that only our preternatural state of existence and role as the murderers of our "mother race" that he found truly damning.

When it came to the rules of intimacy... as deliberately diverted as his thoughts were as we drove that night, I knew there was more to his abstinence than that.

* * *

_November 27, 1919_

My shirt is off as I stand in the bare front room of the cabin, now devoid of nearly all furnishings. It's all been moved and awaits us in Ashland.

There is only the table in the corner with some books and instruments on it, a fire in the fireplace, and Carlisle standing close, reaching for me with nervous hesitation. He draws back suddenly, shaking his head and holding up his hands.

_I can't do this, Edward. No... _"I thought I could, but I can't."

"Yes, you can."

He shakes his head again.

"You said that it was my choice," I protest, closing the distance again. "This is what I want."

_It will hurt you, and I can't do that._

I laugh. "A year ago tonight you sank your teeth into me and put me through the worst torment imaginable for three days, but you can't do _this_? This pain will be nothing compared to the transformation, and it'll only last a few minutes."

"Edward," he sighs, his mind running through the same argument we've had several times now.

Knowing he'll just arrive at the same inarguable conclusion, I hold my hand out.

"Do it."

He stares at the offering for few moments, lips pursed, and then makes up his mind in a whirlwind. Even though I hear his intention, it's still a shock as grabs my arm with one hand and takes hold of my forefinger with another, and cranks it hard. Even the resounding _crack _is jarring.

Perhaps foolishly, I'd expected the pain to be localized, but instead it screams through my hand, radiates shrilly up my arm and then into my whole being, every cell suddenly a riot of distress signals. I freeze in hissing rage and watch Carlisle take my twitching finger to the instruments in the corner, feeling what he once spoke of... the recognition my body has of part of its whole away from itself...

As I'd hoped, rational thought, while hard to hold onto, is possible.

But rational thought turns out to be a beast of duality. It's entirely rational to want to attack the being that just ripped my finger off and get it from him. Kill him, in fact, is what the rage demands.

But also rational, of course, is the reason for this. Carlisle had done this to himself twice; once out of curiosity and once to show me, a curious newborn, how our bodies behave when parts are severed. Neither time would he have been capable of studying; it's an understatement, I'm discovering, to say that the pain is too much of a distraction.

This was my idea, I try to remind myself. I was so sure I could control myself through the pain long enough for him to get some samples...

He grips my severed forefinger to hold it still while it drools venom into a petrie dish and I turn away, holding my injured hand in the other, grunting through the pain and the urge to attack.

As the next moments elapse, I don't have to pay attention to sounds or thoughts to know that Carlisle is using his own sterile thumbnail (he already knows microorganisms can't survive either on the surface of our bodies or within them, just as man-made instruments can't even make a dent) to hurriedly scrape a minuscule amount of inner flesh and bone away from the appendage onto a slide for examination.

Whether I pay attention or not, though, his thoughts are there. As usual, nothing seems able to mute my gift, not even this.

_...just skip the next part... he's in too much pain as it is... _

"No," I grind out, at the same time falling to my knees to keep from launching at him. I hold out my injured hand behind me in offering again, and this time my body screams in protest. "Do it."

There's no hesitation. For once he acts without resolving the conflict in his head first. I feel the rush of air on my back as he sweeps in, my hand suddenly in his grip. I grimace in a stilted scream as the razor edge of his thumbnail carves out a sample from my wound, and then he's gone and, thank all the powers that be... my severed finger is in my hand.

It's amazing how quickly the pain dissipates. Just as I saw Carlisle's finger do nearly a year ago, mine knits seamlessly back into place. I can feel every nerve reaching, re-attaching, and when the skin itself joins, it's as if layers of sealant are wrapping into place. Completion.

My first _truly_ rational thought is that one of our questions is answered (and there have been so many lately, as our conversations have wandered time and again to what the nature of our anatomy is really like); my body doesn't require the tiny amount of removed matter in order to knit back into place and feel complete.

Carlisle is by the microscope, watching me cautiously as I rise and turn around again.

"I'm fine," I tell him, holding up my hand. "It feels fine. There's no draw to whatever you scraped away."

His chest, swollen with held breath, collapses as he sighs and nods in relief.

"Well, they're certainly drawn to each other here. Look at this," he says, indicating the pair of slides he has set up.

I approach the table and can see immediately what he means. The two slides are next to each other, one with a scraping from my finger, the other with a sample taken from where the finger was broken off... the iridescent bits of matter on each slide are progressing across the glass as if to join, not quickly but with unmistakeable purpose.

I mutter an oath.

Before the matter on either slide reaches the edge to join, Carlisle places ceiling slides on top of each sample and hands me one set. He braces the other under the lens of a microscope.

"Bad idea," I say a moment later.

Even between the two tightly compressed pieces of glass I'm holding, the matter seems to recognize who's holding it and starts spreading out in a journey to escape and be one with me. I set the slide down on the table well away from the microscope and watch as the matter within retracts back to the center, regrouping as if confused now that I'm not holding it.

Even though part of me is disturbed, the greater part is fascinated.

"See that?" I ask Carlisle.

He draws his gaze from the microscope long enough to look at the slide.

_Interesting. No draw to it at all?_

"No."

"Do you see this?" he asks, going back to what he sees under the microscope.

I harness his vision.

"Yes," I breathe a moment later, examining the obviously crystalline structure along with him.

"The bone shard... look at it!" ..._all structure has dimension but this is the first time I've seen microscopic samples with visible_ _multiple_ dimensionality._.. so fluid... nothing like it..._

He sketched out all he sees and makes copious notes.

He'd examined our surface skin microscopically before, as well as venom. But tonight is a first in a few ways.

He uses an eyedropper to drop a bit of my venom onto a slide of divided samples from my finger and watches how it accelerates the reuniting of the cells (if they could be called that - our cellular structure seems to break a few rules)... how seamlessly they join, developing receptors as they approach one another.

He takes an oral swab of his own venom and compares it to a sample from my own mouth, then compares both to what came from my hand. The oral swabs both varied a bit, and even my oral venom is slightly different from what came from my hand, but all three have an identical core structure, possibly confirming the long-held theory that lineage can be determined by venom.

He holds a lit match to one sample of reunited flesh and watches the aftermath... how utterly and completely the breakdown occurs, each cell disintegrating into onyx dust.

A year after Carlisle transformed me, I insisted we spend the day seeking answers. And although it leads to more questions, the findings in general feel like progress. I don't tell him, but I decide after that to spend every anniversary of my change in a quest for scientific answers to the what, how and why of what we are.

We have one week left in the cabin. In that week, whenever we check what's left in the slides, the matter within them is still active and shows no sign of deterioration.

Neither of us likes to think about what that might imply.

The day we leave, we throw them in the lit fireplace, pile extra wood in, and share quiet, often humorous conversation until the fire burns out.

The ridiculous Pierce-Arrow is stowed in a garage at the new place in Ashland. We drive away from the cabin in a Cadillac.

* * *

_A/N: Tomorrow I'll be posting tidbits and pictures (including the cars) on the Twilighted thread for this story. _

_I wish to thank the swami of canon Carlisle, giselle-lx, for planting the seeds of Carlisle's alias in my head. In her ficdom, particularly the wonderful "Stregoni Benefici" (which you must read), Carlisle's father is named William. _

_Also a shout-out to trainlindz, whose brilliant one-shot "Brick" is partly responsible for Carlisle and Edward discussing sexual intimacy while on the road.  
_

_And thank you, much more than usual, for reading._


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